


The Ides of January

by GrumpyGhostOwl



Series: Battle of the Planets: 2163 [9]
Category: Battle of the Planets
Genre: F/M, Gen, Things-fall-down-go-"Boom!", Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5803315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyGhostOwl/pseuds/GrumpyGhostOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having failed to kill Chief Anderson in the events of 'Spectra Spiny Ant Eater,' Zoltar sends one of his deadliest assassins to finish the job. As it happens, Chief Anderson is well guarded and his security coordinator has an unfortunate habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time... for a given value of 'wrong.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 0000 - 0630

**Author's Note:**

> ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS  
> Thanks to Sharon Alvarado, Kat Ross and the inimitable Naa-Dei Nikoi for beta reading. Thanks to Shadow and Cetan for being owlish and hawk-eyed, respectively.
> 
> NOTES  
> This story is part of my Battle of the Planets: 2163 series. It picks up eight weeks after the events depicted in Spectra Spiny Ant Eater, by Mark Stalter and Grumpy. It takes place over the course of a single day. Datelines are expressed in Western Standard Time, as used in Center City and surrounding areas.
> 
> The Ides are a certain day of the month according to the Roman Calendar. Julius Caesar was killed on the Ides of March (March 15) as immortalised in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar as the prophetic warning, "Beware the Ides of March!" The Ides of any given month are worked out according to the following rules:  
> The Kalends always falls on the first of the month  
> The Nones falls on the fifth, except as described by the following poem:  
> March, July, October, May,  
> The Nones are on the seventh day.  
> The Ides falls eight days after the Nones.
> 
> The Ides of January, therefore, is the 13th of January in any given year. Why January? The prequel to this story features an attack on an Antarctic base, and there isn't a screaming blizzard, so the story must be set somewhere in the Antarctic spring or summer. The weather back in Center City is mild, so it must be autumn, or fall, there. The only month I can think of that fits the bill for the setting of Spectra Spiny Ant-Eater, therefore, is November (spring comes late to Antarctica) and this story is set eight weeks after that, so it must be January.

**Spectran Operative Code Name "Viper" - Undisclosed private residence, suburban Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 0012 hours**  
  
I practice the accent again, and Hogat says, "Almost perfect, but you could do better."  He plays that accursed voice recording again and I throw the mask at him.  
  
 "Careful with that," he cautions, catching it.  "If you damage it, Goro will have to make another one."  He puts it down carefully on the coffee table.  
  
 "Goro gets paid enough to make a dozen of these ugly things!" I grumble.  
  
Hogat regards me impassively for a moment.  "Am I to assume that you no longer wish to practice?" he says.  
  
  "Yes, you are," I affirm, pouting and falling back against the sofa cushions.  "I am tired."  
  
 "Then rest," Hogat bids me.  "He will be here, soon, anyway."  
  
 "I will be ready," I say.  "I always am."  
  
 "I know," Hogat says.  "I will be downstairs, checking the equipment."  He bends and kisses my forehead, and I smile at him.  He straightens, then pads silently out of the room.  He pauses in the doorway and half turns to look at me again.  "You are beautiful," he tells me.  
  
 "I know," I reply as he leaves.  I listen to Hogat's footsteps grow faint down the stairs as he heads for the basement.  
  
Even though I have thrown a tantrum for Hogat's benefit, I am not that lax, and Hogat knows it.  I stretch, allowing myself a languid moment, then stand and walk over to the mantle. I look at my reflection in the mirror which hangs on the wall:  a delicate, heart shaped face with prominent cheekbones, large grey eyes with thick, sooty lashes, a well proportioned mouth, pert nose and a lush, glossy bob of ebony hair.  I shudder as I remember how the scar tissue from the burns could have made me look, how it felt to lie in that hospital bed in near-mortal agony despite the painkillers, struggling for every breath, every second of life.  I toss my head, banishing the memory, and give thanks once again for the miracle of science that saved me from spending my life in pain and deformity.  
  
I pay a high price, but it is worth it.  
  
The antique carriage clock chimes for the quarter hour.  My contact will have finished his shift and is not far away.  He is a fool, like all of them, so easily seduced away from his loyalties.  At least this one is pretty, and his body does not disgust me.  Hogat is jealous, this time, and his jealousy pleases me.  
  
I hear the purr of the motorcycle's engine as he pulls into the driveway.  The engine stops, the stand scrapes on the paving, and I pour one and a half glasses of wine from the open bottle on the sideboard. I drop a tiny pilule into the full glass and watch as it dissolves.  I put the glasses down on the coffee table, then I walk to the hall and open the front door.  He is on the doorstep, his sandy blonde hair dishevelled from the motorcycle ride, helmet tucked under his arm, one hand halfway to the doorbell.  I smile.  
  
 "Hey," he greets me with a smile of his own.  It is a nice smile.  Open, sunny even in the darkness.  So gullible, so trusting.  
  
 "Hey, yourself," I reply.  He sweeps me up in his arms, lifting me off my feet and swinging me around.  I laugh and let my arms twine around his neck.  "Miss me?" he asks.  
  
 "You know I did," I tell him, modulating my voice so that it is low, slightly husky.  He mistakes it for desire.  They always do.  "How was work?"  
  
 "Same old same old," he says, letting me loose as we walk into the house.   "Hey, it's freezing in here," he says, "why don't we have a fire?"  
  
 "No!"  I catch myself, hearing the sharpness in my voice.  "I don't like fires."  I smile again. "Fires are messy and smelly.  Why don't you tell me about your day?" I suggest.  "You have such an interesting job."  
  
 "I know what you want to hear," he says, grinning as he flops backward into a sitting position on the couch.  
  
 "Tell me," I say, letting myself sink down beside him, my fingertips tracing the line of his jaw.  
  
 "Anderson's due back in the office tomorrow."  
  
_Tomorrow!_ "So soon," I breathe.  
  
 "Apparently.  According to the scuttlebutt, he's only back a couple days a week.  Amazing what they can do, these days.  Doctors, I mean."  
  
 "Yes," I agree.  I reach for the wine, handing him the full glass and keeping the half glass for myself.  "You have to get me in to see him," I say, snuggling close.  "To get the inside scoop on Security Chief Anderson would be my big break into serious journalism.  I could sell the story to any and every publication in the Galaxy!  You have to help me.  You know what it means."  
  
 "Yeah," he says.  "My job."  He takes a large swallow of wine.  
  
 "You won't need your security job once I sell the story.  A publisher on Proxima offered me two hundred thousand for it, sight unseen, and he didn't even want exclusive rights, just a week on everyone else."  
  
 "You're assuming Anderson'll even talk to you!" he says, pushing himself up and away from me.  He turns and stands facing me, his fear showing in his eyes.  
  
 "Why wouldn't he talk to me?" I challenge, leaning back and draping one arm across the back of the sofa.  "You don't think I can persuade a middle aged bureaucrat in the midst of a life changing experience to talk to me?"  
  
 "This is Anderson we're talking about," he reminds me.  "He's... " he shakes his head, and takes another draught of wine.  
  
 "He's only a man," I point out.  "I can do this," I promise.  "I can get this story and then we're on our way and you won't have to salute anyone, ever again."  I put my glass down on the coffee table and rise, moving slowly, sinuously, draping my arms around him, kissing him lightly on the lips and feeling him relax into my embrace.  He surrenders to me.  As they all do.  "You only have to get me inside the building," I murmur.  His kisses deepen, his caresses become more demanding.   He lets me take the wine glass from his hand and put it on the mantel.  It is only a third full.  Good.  
  
 "Whatever you want," he mumbles.  "Anything..."  
  
 "Anything I want?" I ask him.  
  
 "Anything at all..."  
  
  
  
Later, he falls asleep, and I get up, pulling on a robe and hurrying to the bathroom.  I wash my face and hands, and I see my reflection staring back at me from the vanity mirror, wild eyed and dishevelled.  I can hear my mother's outraged voice:   _Whore!_ she would shriek, if she knew.  But it is for Spectra, for our world, for our life that I do this.  I do not have the luxury of my mother's boondock morality.  I cannot sit at home and wait to be rescued.  I have a job to do, a task entrusted to me by Zoltar himself.  
  
Even if I did not owe Mala and Zoltar my life, I would still do this for Spectra.  I was a loyal Galaxy Girl long before I was a vaunted assassin.  
  
The damp face in the mirror is composed again, and I reach for the brush to tidy my hair.  Amazing, how they got it to grow back again after it was all burned away...  I remember the base being attacked, people running, saying G-Force had come and the power plant was about to blow...  The rest, up to the moment where I awoke in agony in sick bay on the ship home, is an emptiness in my mind.  I cannot remember the fire.  I cannot remember dragging three people to safety, although they tell me I did.  I cannot remember going back in to try to get my colleagues out.  It is like a story told about someone else altogether.  I only remember what happened afterward.  
  
_My mother wept at my bedside.  She told me how she had my funeral all planned.  I could not speak: my throat was burned and I was breathing through a tube attached to a machine.  They would not let me have anything reflective in the room, in case I caught a glimpse of myself.  
_  
_Then Zoltar himself entered the room.  My mother prostrated herself on the floor, only to have him bend and gently help her to her feet as though she were a great lady instead of a country henwife.  "Dry your tears," he told her.  "Your daughter is a great heroine for Spectra."  
_  
_"My daughter is dying, Sire," my mother sobbed.  
_  
_"Yes," Zoltar said.  He stood silently while a new Galaxy Girl recruit, proud yet nervous in her new uniform, took my mother's arm and led her out of the room.  Zoltar sat in the chair still warm from my mother having spent so much time in it.  "You know, then, that you will die, soon," he said bluntly.  
_  
_I managed a small nod to show I understood, my eyes filling with tears of pain.  
_  
_"It does not have to end like this," he told me.  "My sister tells me you are a loyal and valiant fighter.  For those who are brave, there is another way."  
_  
  
I toss my head and bring my thoughts back to the present.  Sacrifices must be made, and only the courageous can walk such roads as these.  I am not dishonoured by this.  My every act since Zoltar snatched me back from that place of pain and despair has been for my people.  I return to the bedroom and take the tiny neural interface unit from my jewellery box.  My sometime lover dozes, drifting between sleeping and waking, his receptiveness ensured by the drug in his wine and my hold on his emotions.  I attach the small, glittering oval to his left temple.  It moulds automatically to his skin and activates.  
  
His eyelids flicker as the device stimulates his subconscious mind.  
  
 "You love me," I tell him.  "You would do anything for me."  
  
 "Yes," he slurs.  
  
 "You will obtain means for me to enter ISO Headquarters, with access to the Executive Offices.  I wish to interview Security Chief Anderson.  I am a freelance journalist.  I wish to tell his side of the story.  There is no harm in what I am doing."  
  
 "'S no harm innit," he mumbles.  
  
 "No harm at all," I reassure him, stroking his hair.  "You will obtain means for me to enter ISO Headquarters..."  I repeat my vague yet insistent instructions, over and over, insinuating my agenda into his mind.   When I am done, I remove the interface unit and tuck him into bed.  "Sleep now, pretty one," I tell him.  "You have a big day, tomorrow."  
  
Hogat is waiting for me in the living room.  His face reflects his anger.  "This was the last time with him," he tells me.  
  
 "Perhaps," I say.  "You must not be jealous," I add.  "You know it is necessary.  He is not the first, and he will not be the last."  
  
 "It would be fitting," Hogat snarls, "to have _him_ do the killing."  
  
 "Fitting," I agree, "but  impossible.  Human beings cannot be persuaded to go against their natures in such a blatant way, even with the neural interface device.  To get him to the point where he would be willing to carry out the assassination would require months of work.  We would have to break him and brainwash him.  We have not the time."  
  
 "I prefer it when your conquests are fat, balding politicians," Hogat grumbles.  
  
I settle myself on the sofa with the notebook computer to call up the images of my target again:  it is mostly media footage, with a few surveillance sequences.  I have the information almost memorised, hardly needing the video, but the organic mind -- even one like mine -- can still play tricks, and data does not lie.  On the screen, my target is giving a speech.  The camera sweeps over the audience.  For the most part, he has their attention, but my scrutiny goes elsewhere.  There, in the background as the focus returns to the stage, is my passage to the kill.  Behind the tall, charismatic speaker, ignored in the shadow he casts, is one of the little people nobody notices:  the officer in charge of his security detail.  She is a dull little mouse of a thing, and even though she is close in height and build to me, unlike me she has no presence, no aura of command despite the insignia of rank she wears.  
  
She has no idea that 'she' is going to kill the man she is sworn to protect:  the Federation's Chief of Galaxy Security.  
  
Mala failed the first time because she was too direct.  Her Galaxy Girls failed the second time because they were not direct enough.  
  
I will not fail.  
  
Zoltar will be pleased.  
  
  


* * *

  
****Chief of Galaxy Security David Anderson - Center City Residence, Planet Earth: January 13, 0600 hours.** **  
  
I open the bedroom door and head downstairs.  The house echoes, empty.  Eight weeks ago I would have used the word, 'peaceful,' but now it's just empty.  
  
We got in late last night from Camp Parker in an interestingly juxtaposed convoy:  Jason's vehicle carrying himself, Princess, Tiny and Keyop, a Galaxy Security limousine with Mark, me and my security staff.  
  
The team stayed long enough for a late supper (they're the only people I know who can make just as much mess with take-out as they do cooking a meal) then they started arguing over who was going to tidy up.  In the end I kicked them out and went to bed.  
  
I stand in the kitchen doorway and survey the wreckage.  How did they manage to get a slice of onion on the refrigerator door?  I start gathering up the pizza boxes when my palm unit emits a soft "reminder" beep.  I must have missed a call while I was in the shower.  I put the boxes down, wipe my hands on a paper towel and look at the screen of the small device.  It's a security bulletin from Zark:  Priority One.  I sit down and start to read, the pizza boxes forgotten.  
  
_SECURITY BULLETIN 63/01-CED 034  PRIORITY ONE - CLASSIFIED LEVEL 3_  
_Further to Bulletin 63/01-CED 027:_  
_Executive Briefing 0800._  
_Level 4 team leaders' briefing 0900._  
_Level 2 and 3 officers' briefing 1000._  
  
There are two messages attached to the bulletin:  
  
_Chief, call Al as soon as you get this, then call me re Exec Briefing 0800 at HQ - Jack_  
and  
_Sir, please contact me ASAP - ALJ._  
  
The bulletin is time stamped 0555 hours.  I check my watch.  Yes, I would have been in the shower.  The two addenda are stamped 0440 and 0442, respectively, but weren't transmitted until Counter Espionage sent the bulletin.  I press one of the fast-connect keys on the palm unit.  
  
  _"Sir_ ," says a crisp, English voice with an edge like cut glass.  
  
 "You'd better get in here," I say, and close the channel.  I get up and walk to a door that leads from the kitchen to the side porch.  I unlock it and turn the handle.  Striding across the lawn from the guest house that serves as a base for my security detail is my personal security coordinator, her ash blonde hair pale against the midnight blue Galaxy Security uniform she wears.  Her heels tap smartly on the paving when she reaches the porch.  No doubt, she's been on site since the early hours, doing whatever she felt was necessary to ensure my safety.  As she comes to a stop, she automatically assumes a ramrod straight stance.  
  
 "Good morning, sir," she says, her words quick and precisely clipped.  
  
 "Come in, Major," I say, standing back and allowing her to enter the disaster that is my kitchen.  
  
With the professional tact that comes with being a senior protection officer, she pretends not to notice the mess.  
  
 "Have you spoken to Director Lewindowsky, yet, sir?" she asks, taking a seat in response to my gesture and trying to be unobtrusive about brushing a piece of mushroom off the chair.  I should have steered her to a place other than the one where Keyop was sitting last night.  
  
 "Not yet," I say.  "What have you got for me?"  
  
 "It's the Viper, sir.  Counter Espionage have identified her target."  
  
 "And?"  
  
 "I'm afraid you're it, sir."  She waits for the information to sink in.  "Would you like a cup of tea, sir?"  
  
 "I need coffee," I decide.  A perverse thought occurs to me: for Zoltar to be this intent on killing me, I must be doing something right.  "No!" I say, a little more sharply than I intended, as Jones moves to get out of her chair.  "I'll make it."  I get up and walk to the counter.  I reach for the coffee can with one hand, flipping the lid up on the dripolator with the other.  
  
Jones looks at her hands, which are clasped loosely in front of her, wrists supported on the edge of the table so that she doesn't get any more of the kids' mess on her uniform than she has to.  "There are worse things in the Galaxy than my coffee, sir," she ventures.  
  
 "Name one," I challenge, spooning coffee into the filter cone.  I measure water into the jug, tip it into the machine, check that everything is in position and turn the dripolator on.  I take my cup off the shelf and put it down by the decanter, then turn and lean back against the counter.  
  
 "Sulphuric acid?" Jones suggests.  Behind me, the dripolator makes a guttural sucking sound.  
  
 "There are legitimate industrial uses for sulphuric acid," I point out.  I'd had coffee that reminded me of the La Brea Tar Pits before I met Jones, but she can actually make it taste like sabre toothed tigers have died in it.  Sometimes I think she does it on purpose.  Either way, if Gunny isn't around, I make my own coffee when she's on duty.  
  
 "Quite, sir," she says with a humourless smile.  "There's not a lot of detail at this stage," she reports.  "They're not sure whether the Viper's made planetfall, yet.  All arrival points are on alert and all available personnel are being briefed.  I've put the squad on high alert.  Extra staff are being assigned from HQ so that we can double your guard, starting first watch today."  
  
 "And?" I prompt, well able to guess what she's going to say next.  
  
 "And I think you should relocate to Center Neptune as soon as possible.  You're a lot less vulnerable, there."  
  
 "Zoltar came pretty close to killing me at the Neptune complex," I counter.  
  
 "That was a full scale attack, sir.  This is different.  I strongly recommend you relocate as soon as practicable."  
  
 "I'll consider it," I compromise, and she arches an eyebrow in doubt.  Alberta Jones is rarely verbose.  She won't argue with me unless she's pushed beyond endurance, but she compensates for it by having perfected the withering look, the eyebrow quirk, the peer-over-the-top-of-the-sunglasses and various other expressions that let me know what she's thinking.  "I'll go in to HQ, first," I say.  "I'll have to hook up with Jack and find out exactly what's going on.  You said yourself, details are sketchy."  The swamp noises have ceased emanating from the dripolator (I wish someone would invent a silent coffee machine) and I turn around to pour myself a caffeine hit.  
  
 "When would you like the car, sir?" she asks, seemingly resigned to my stubbornness for now.  
  
 "Around seven fifteen," I say, and head for the study, my coffee cup in one hand, thumbing Jack Lewindowsky's code into my palm unit with the other.  
  
 " _Morning, Chief_ ," Jack greets me.  " _You got my message?_ "  
  
 "I didn't call just because I like to hear your voice in the morning, Jack," I tell him, elbowing the study door open.  
  
 " _Has Al filled you in_?"  
  
 "She's doubled the guard and wants me to put my tail between my legs and make a run for Center Neptune, if that's what you mean."  I sit down at my desk take a swallow of coffee and put the cup down.  
  
 " _It's your call, Chief,_ " Jack says, and I can almost hear him shrug.  " _You know Al: she isn't a big picture thinker."_   I flip up the lid of my briefcase and start checking that I have everything I need.  
  
 "Are we on for eight?" I ask, ignoring his comment.  
  
 " _Oh eight hundred sharp_ ," Jack promises.  
  
 "I'll be there," I conclude.  
  
I close the channel on my palm unit, put it down on the desk and take another draught of coffee.  I put my fountain pen in the sleeve inside my briefcase.  To be on the safe side, I put an ink refill in there, as well.  I can't remember when I replaced the last one.  My palm unit chimes to indicate an incoming data transmission.  I plug it into the desktop access slot and activate the larger computer.  Jack is sending me his files on the Viper.  I close the briefcase, put it down on the floor near my chair, and settle in to read.  
  
At seven o'clock, I head upstairs to the bedroom to get my jacket and tie.  When I'm ready, I fetch my briefcase from the study and head toward the door.  I stop in mid stride halfway down the hallway.  The kitchen:  I forgot all about the mess in the kitchen.  
  
Putting the briefcase down, I close my eyes and count to ten.  It doesn't help.  I can't reasonably be mad at the kids since they intended to clean up, but I sent them home.  
  
Wearily, I push the kitchen door open.  
  
It's spotless.  
  
The pizza boxes are gone and every surface is clean.  The room reeks of lemon scented disinfectant.  
  
Throughout my convalescence, people have gone out of their way to be _nice_ to me.  Sometimes I'm truly grateful, other times, I resent the intrusion quite bitterly and I get angry at the fact that I'm still not a hundred percent fit and able to do what I could, before.  Right now, I'm feeling ambivalent. The thought of other people feeling sorry for me grates against my still bruised and fragile ego, but I have to admit, I've been saved some trouble.  
  
I leave the kitchen and retrieve my briefcase, exiting via the front door.  The limousine is waiting in the driveway with no less than four security officers in attendance.  
  
At a signal from Jones, one of them gets into the front passenger seat, two more climb into the main cabin.  Jones holds the door open for me.  I detect a whiff of lemon.  
  
 "Thanks for the kitchen," I say quietly.  
  
 "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir."  That's as close to, 'You're welcome' as I'm going to get.  
  
I settle into the limousine as Jones gets in and signals to the driver.  The car starts rolling and I find myself staring absently out through the tinted glass.  It's going to be a long day.  
  
 "Why am I doing this, again?" I joke.  
  
Occupying the seat diagonally opposite from me, Jones doesn't dignify my quip with a spoken answer, but gives me one of the withering looks from her extensive collection.  They say the driest place on Earth is some valley in South America, but I know better:  it's my security coordinator's sense of humour.  
  
She leans across and hands me a thin bundle of envelopes.  "Your mail arrived just before we left, sir," she says mildly, as though she hasn't just given me a look that would desiccate coconut.  
  
 "Thank you," I say, pretending not to have noticed the look.  The mail has been carefully sorted, screened, checked and scanned.  All the business mail goes directly to the office for Galbraith to deal with, while my personal mail has been coming to the house.  Mark took care of that some time ago, promising a slow death by boomerang to anyone who tried to bother me with work while I was sick.  
  
Had I been aware of it at the time, I would probably have resented it.  
  
The mail:  credit card bill.  Twenty four dollars.  (I haven't been getting out much.)  A letter from Keyop's school, inviting me to a parent-teacher evening.  There will be a concert, featuring the school band.  (Note to self: buy ear plugs.)  A "get well" card from Miles' twins.  Cute.  (Note to self: check and see how Miles is doing.)  
  
I'm suddenly aware that I'm being watched.  Slowly, I look up.  
  
 "What is it?" I ask.  
  
 "Nothing, sir," Jones says, and turns her attention to looking out the window.  
  
 "It's a good thing you don't work undercover," I tell her.  "You're a lousy liar."  
  
 "So I've heard, sir," she says, but doesn't answer the question.  
  
I can guess what's going on behind the dark glasses.  "I don't want to hear any more about how I'm going back to work too soon," I grumble.  "Zoltar counts every day I'm not behind that desk as a victory and I won't give him any more satisfaction than he's had already."  I glower at her.  "And don't give me that look!" I add vehemently.  
  
 "Very good, sir," Jones says, and the chill in her voice sends the temperature plummeting to about thirty below in here.  The other two security officers, Lieutenants Bairstow and Rossi, merely look resigned: their Boss and the Chief are butting heads yet again.  
  
I know Jones didn't say anything, but I know she was thinking it.  I'm only eight weeks the other side of a heart attack, and Kate Halloran, Galaxy Security's Chief Medical Officer, has been pulling out all the stops -- as have I -- to facilitate my recovery.  As little as five years ago, I would have had to spend twice as long recuperating.  Ten years ago, I might have had to take early retirement.  Wind the medical clock back a century, and there's no question:  Zoltar would have succeeded in killing me.  
  
My recovery is progressing remarkably well.  I'm by no means as fit as I was before the MI, but Kate sees no reason why I can't return to work a couple of days a week, just to give Zoltar the finger.  
  
Mark was initially resistant to the idea.  Of all the children, he has been the one most affected by my near demise.  We've worked through a lot of issues over the last couple of months, and while I can't undo the past, we have come to an understanding on most things.  He'll probably never forgive me for not telling him the truth about his father, but I don't expect him to.  After all, I'll probably never forgive myself.  
  
Mark accepts, however, that I need to do this, as much to convince myself that I'll make a full recovery as to show the ISO Council, the government, the general public and Spectra that it takes more than some alien bastard in a purple Hallowe'en costume to take me down.  
  
I won't be achieving a lot, other than putting on a show of defiant bravado.  This new assassination threat complicates matters.


	2. 0645 - 0900

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galaxy Security reacts to the new threat.

**G-Force Commander Mark Hawking - rented airfield outside of Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 0645 hours.**  
  
I don't want to wake up, but I've spent over half my life training to respond quickly to things and my brain insists on being alert.  "What's up, Zark?" I grumble into my communicator.  
  
 " _Good morning, Commander_ ," Zark says briskly.  " _Please report to ISO HQ at zero eight hundred hours for a special priority one security briefing_."  
  
 "A mission?" I yawn, and sit up, fumbling for my shoes.  
  
 " _An executive briefing_ ," Zark says.  " _Security Chief Anderson wants you there_."  
  
 "Me?  At an executive briefing?"  I make a face.  "He's never done that before."  
  
 " _All of you_ ," Zark corrects.  " _There's a first time for everything, Commander_ ," he says tritely.  " _Center Neptune Control, out_."  
  
I take a deep breath and let Zark's words sink in.  What could the Chief be up to that he wants G-Force to attend an exec briefing?  And why now?  The Chief is back at work today, for the first time in a little over eight weeks.  He's been on sick leave since he had his heart attack, and it's been an emotional roller coaster.  
  
The crisis jolted me out of the extended pity party I’d been throwing myself ever since my birth father, Cronus, finally got to fulfil his ego-driven death wish.  Colonel Cronus died as he lived, a hero of the Federation. I took it badly, reacting on an emotional level like the four year old I’d been when he abandoned me the first time.  
  
When I came to my senses and realised that I’d _had_ a father all these years, right in front of me, it was very nearly too late. Just recently, I’ve been getting to know the man who raised me a little better, and I think it’s done both of us some good. The Chief – who didn’t sire me but who is, to all intents and purposes, my real father, as far as I’m concerned – is due to return to duty today. My biggest fear is that we might drift apart again.  
  
I get up and shower, wracking my brains to try and recall anything from recent security bulletins that could be important enough for this.  There was that bulletin from a couple of weeks ago about an assassin, perhaps Zoltar's going to have another crack at some of our senior people.  
  


* * *

**  
G-Force Commander Mark Hawking - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 0800 hours.**  
  
I glance around the room, feeling a little uncomfortable.  Most of the time, when we have a briefing, it's just the team, but today, we're in illustrious company:  the Chief, of course, is the most senior officer in the room, followed by his Deputy, Roly Galbraith, then there are the divisional heads: Jack Lewindowsky from Counter Espionage; Deidre Kelly, Director Intelligence; Ted O'Hara, Director Internal Security; Science Director Ian Winters; Special Projects head Bob Halloran, and Director Corporate Services Shane Cheng.  Trying to look unobtrusive, standing near the door, is the Chief's security coordinator, talking quietly with Lewindowsky.  I watch as she takes a seat and he strides to the front of the room.  At my left, Princess is sitting silently, hands in her lap as though overawed by all the suits.  Keyop and Tiny have their heads together, whispering about something, and Jason, at my right hand, is leaning back in his chair, arms folded, an expression of seeming boredom on his face, but the tension in his wiry frame tells me he's aware of everything happening in this room and is ready to move, if it's needed, in less than a heartbeat.  
  
 "Good morning, everyone," Lewindowsky greets us. "Have you all got coffee?  If everybody's here, I'd like to get started."  
  
A grainy image flashes up on the screen: a fuzzy female shape, out of focus. She appears to be tall and willowy. She has red hair in the photo, but it could be a wig or a colour job.  
  
 "This is the only picture we have of a Spectran operative known as, ‘the Viper,’" Lewindowsky tells us. "It’s not very helpful, but it’s all we have.  We know she’s somewhere between five six and five nine in height, of athletic build, and appears to have grey eyes, but of course she can disguise most of those things. Our sources tell us Zoltar’s sending her to Earth on an assignment."  
  
Jason, sitting next to me, leans forward, elbows on the conference table, and speaks his mind:  "We've known the Viper was heading our way for two weeks, why the panic now?"  
  
 "It's hardly a panic, Jason," Lewindowsky says, "it's an update, and an up _grade_.  We've found out who the Viper's target is, and it's one of our own."  
  
Jason's eyes are immediately on Chief Anderson.  
  
 "Seems I'm Mister Popularity where Spectra's concerned," Anderson says with a droll smile.  
  
 "Are they ever going to quit?" I wonder aloud, my stomach knotting.  
  
 "They might, if we make it difficult enough," Anderson says.  
  
Lewindowsky reclaims the floor. "We can start by neutralising the Viper.  As far as we know, the Viper isn't aware that we know she's coming.  We've been scouring our files and getting information from our allies to build a profile.  No-one is aware of the Viper ever having visited Earth before, but that doesn't mean that she hasn't done so in the past under some other name or guise.  We know she usually works with her own team, who apparently put their loyalty to her above their loyalty to Zoltar.  
  
 "Rigan intelligence was good enough to provide everything they were able to piece together following the assassination of Admiral Nagawa some eighteen months back, but even this isn't a lot.  The good news is that as you haven't publicly returned to work, yet, Chief, she possibly hasn't even left Spectra, or if she has, she isn't planning to make her strike until your official return to duties.  I'd say we have a few days at least before she tries anything.  The worrying part is that on several hits -- but not every one -- she's had someone on the inside or close to it."  
  
 " _Another_ mole?" I hear my own voice rising with anger.  
  
 "What is this, an epidemic?" Jason demands.  
  
 "I know how you feel," Lewindowsky begins.  
  
 "I don't think you do," Jason retorts.  "We all rely on secrecy and security to be able to live something that almost approximates a normal life.  Without that, we're virtual prisoners, only being let out for missions and patrols.  We rely on you people, and we seem to have more holes in our security than Swiss cheese!"  
  
 "I'm no more pleased about it than you are," Lewindowsky says.  
  
 "And one of the things we need to do," says the Chief, looking at Roly Galbraith, "is to initiate a complete review of all our personnel and systems in light of recent enemy infiltrations.  I want to know _why_ our people are going over and then I want to know what we can do to stop it."  
  
 "It would only take one member of your security detail to turn," Jason speculates, and leaves the rest of his sentence hanging, unspoken.  He turns in his seat and drills Al Jones with a glare. "Can you vouch for each and every individual under your command, Al?"  
  
 "Normally, sir, I'd say yes," she replies calmly.  "I've just had an additional twelve staff assigned on a temporary basis.  I don't know all of them personally, but I'm certain ISD has subjected them to the most stringent checks."  
  
 "That's right," Ted O'Hara speaks up.  "None of my people are enemy spies!"  
  
 "Mr Cheng would probably have said the same thing three months ago," Jason argues.  
  
 "Catering staff," O'Hara says, "were never subject to the same kind of clearances required by ISD protection officers."  
  
 "Maybe they should be!"  Jason is almost rising out of his chair.  
  
 "Gentlemen, please!"  Roly Galbraith holds up a hand for quiet.  "We're still in the process of conducting a complete and very thorough review of security across the organisation," he says, directing his words at Jason.  
  
 "Sure," Jason says, "you're 'in the process.'  You haven't _done_ it."  
  
 "What's your recommendation, Jason?" Anderson asks, and the room falls silent.  
  
 Jason settles back in his seat and folds his arms again, gathering this thoughts.  "The safest thing to do would be to pull back to Center Neptune until the Viper is neutralised."  
  
 "And if she isn't neutralised?" the Chief asks.  
  
 "We just have to make sure that she is," Jason insists.  "You've called me reckless and headstrong on more than one occasion.  What do you call putting yourself up as bait for an assassin who's taken out numerous high level targets?"  
  
 "Relocation is something I'm taking under advisement," Anderson says.  
  
 "With all due respect," Lewindowsky says, "experience has shown that going into hiding hasn't been effective in the past.  The Viper's third target was Lieutenant Governer Annabel McConaughey on Planet Aurora.  McConaughey retreated to a secret base, along with her family.  The Viper simply disappeared.  As soon as McConaughey re-emerged, she was killed.   Admiral Nagawa's murder was similar.  She stalked him for a month, disappeared, made another hit on Spectra itself, then returned to Riga and shot the Admiral.  According to our sources, the Viper prides herself on finishing the job, no matter how long it takes."  
  
 "So, if I go into hiding now," Anderson infers, "then I'm obliged to stay there, and if the Viper is as good as disappearing and reappearing as previous experience seems to suggest, all I'm doing is postponing the inevitable."  
  
 "So we use a doppelganger," Jason argues.  "Dig out that old robot double of Mark from wherever you've got it mothballed and refurbish it to look like the Chief."  
  
 "That would take some time, " Bob Halloran says, "but I see no reason why we couldn't."  
  
 "How much time?" I ask.  
  
 "A few days, minimum," Halloran says.  "For what it's worth, I think we'd be faster building a new one from the ground up rather than skinning the old one and remodelling it."  
  
 "Can you get a time frame and a cost estimate to Jack by ten thirty?" Anderson requests.  
  
 "I'll do my best," Halloran says.  
  
 "Then you'll go, Chief?" I press the point.  
  
 "I'm taking the matter under advisement," Anderson reiterates.  "Jack, what else are we doing about this?"  
  
 "I've got all my best people working on it and then some," Lewindowsky reports.  "So far, they've tracked a member of her backup team as far as the Proxima Centauri independent space station.  Our agents are trying to find out who she had business with on the station.  We'll know more once we can figure out just what she was up to out there."  
  
 "The Proxima ISS is only a few hours' travel from Earth," Princess says, her hands clasped in front of her on the table.  
  
 "At the kinds of time warp _you're_ used to pulling," Lewindowsky qualifies.  
  
 "It's still close," Princess says, holding eye contact.  Her normally limpid green eyes glint with something akin to steel.  
  
 "We're doing all we can," Lewindowsky insists.  
  
 "If you don't mind, Chief," I put in, "I'd like to handle the security screening of your protection staff, myself."  
  
 "As long as Director O'Hara has no objections," Anderson says.  
  
 "Of course not," O'Hara says, with a small tight smile that belies his words.  
  
Slowly, I unclench my hands from the fists they've balled in to.  I can't give in to fear, not now.  Zoltar isn't going to give us time to breathe.  Okay, it sucks, but that's the hand we've been dealt and now we have to play it as best we can.  If I let fear rule me, Zoltar wins a round, and I'm not going to let that happen.    
  
Zoltar took Cronus.  He can't have Anderson.  
  
  


* * *

**  
Chief of Galaxy Security David Anderson - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 0850 hours**  
  
 "It feels almost strange to be back here," I say, settling into the big chair.  I swivel the chair toward the window and gaze out over what can be seen of the Center City through the smog.  I rest my chin on steepled fingers and study the cityscape for a long moment.  Gunnery Sergeant Miles McAllister, my administrative officer, is absent from his usual spot, still on leave after his own encounter with the Spectran poison that nearly killed me.  McAllister has had to settle for standard medical treatment, not for lack of offers, since Kate Halloran tried to talk him into participating in a clinical trial, but his wife Angela wouldn't hear of Galaxy Security using her husband as a 'guinea pig' for 'experimental and untried treatment.'  It's a fair argument, but it means Gunny won't be back for another six weeks or so.  Corporate will be sending me up a temp later today, once all the security checks are complete.  
  
It has been almost eight weeks since I have been in this room.  
  
 "You okay, Chief?" Mark asks from the doorway.  
  
 "Just getting used to the view again," I say, and turn back to my desk.  It’s altogether too tidy for my liking.  I tend to keep a moderately neat desk, but my prolonged absence has left it immaculate – even the individual pages in the files and stacks are neatly aligned, not a leaf out of place.  
  
 "Glad to be back?" Jason ventures, testing the water.  The team is crowded into the doorway, all watching me.  
  
 "Soon as I find out," I say, "you'll be the second to know."  I study the anxious young faces.  "I'm okay.  Really. You must have something better to do than to hang around here."  
  
 "I just wanted to be sure everything was all right," Mark says.  
  
 "I guess it's not every day I come back to work after a brush with my own mortality and the threat of another assassination attempt hanging over my head," I concede, "but I'm fine.  And I'm not about to let things get as bad as they were before the MI.  You have my word."  
  
 "Is that why you wanted us at the Executive briefing?" Mark asks.  "So we'd be in the loop?"  
  
 "Are you comfortable with that?" I answer the question with one of my own.  
  
 "I'm not sure, yet," he confesses.  "I felt kinda like a fish out of water.  Did you see the way everyone looked at us, like we were suddenly going to sprout wings and fly?"  
  
 "Which, in a very real sense," I point out, "you have a tendency to do."  
  
Mark grins and ducks his head sheepishly.  "I never quite thought of it that way," he says.  "Jason and I are going to head over to ISD and see about those security checks."  
  
Princess gives me a final appraising glance, as though she suspects I might just keel over at any minute.  "The rest of us are going to the Snack J," she says.  "We'll be there if you need us."  
  
My children turn and walk through Gunny's empty office area.  I listen to their footsteps grow faint in the heavy carpet.  Time to start messing up this desk.  
  
I glance up from the file I'm reading as I became aware of another presence in the room.  My doorway, it seems, is a popular lurking spot.  
  
 "Not going to the Level Four Officers' briefing, Major?" I infer.  
  
 "I'm about to head over, now, sir."  Jones stands at attention, as always.  Sometimes it makes my back ache just to look at her.  
  
 "But?"    
  
 "Sir, in light of the security breach that occurred before, do you want an analysis kit sent up from the toxicology lab?"  
  
 "I don’t think so," I tell her. "I'm not so paranoid that I’m going to test every cup of coffee."  
  
 "I am, sir."  
  
 "No, Major," I insist.  "We have yet to revert to the days of Ancient Rome where everyone assumed every cup of wine was laced with hemlock."  
  
 "An unfortunate connotation, given the date, sir," she chides me.  
  
It takes me a second to catch up.  By the old Roman calendar, today is the Ides of January.  " _Beware the Ides_ ," I quote.  "But it's not March, and I'm not Caesar," I remind her.  
  
 "Close enough for discomfort, sir," she insists.  
  
 "A little paranoia is a healthy thing, Major," I tell her, "but don't mix it with superstition, it'll only give you a headache."


	3. 1145 - 1800

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With great power comes... paperwork.

**G-Force Commander Mark Hawking - Snack J Cafe, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 1145 hours**

I'm watching Princess drink a milkshake.  It's incredibly sensuous.  For starters, there's that whole business with the straw. Then the way her tongue flickers out to lick a drop of froth from her lips has thoughts running through my head that could get me court martialled.   
  
What I gather from psychology texts is that a normal, healthy, twenty year old male thinks about sex approximately... oh, call it 125% of the time.   
  
That would make me normal.   
  
Keyop and Tiny are arguing over what song to play on the jukebox.  I'm ignoring them, pretending to read a magazine but in reality just watching Princess drink her milkshake.  Jason and I spent most of this morning over at Internal Security.  I wanted to see Major Jones but she was at a Level Four Officers' briefing, then she was briefing her own team, then Director O'Hara told me that the new staff hadn't even been allocated, yet.  We accessed the files that were available, and we've got an appointment with Jones this afternoon.    
_  
Cheerreep!_   
  
Rats.   
  
 "G-1, ears on," I say to my wristband.   
  
 "Ears on," Princess speaks into her communicator.  I really should stop staring at her. I listen as the others check in, then Zark address us:  " _Team, Chief Anderson wants you to attend a security briefing at his office in the ISO Tower at twelve thirty."_   
  
 "Another one?" I query.  "He's taking this whole, 'keeping us in the loop' thing pretty seriously."   
  
 " _Orders are orders, Commander_ ," Zark says.   
  
 "Big ten," I acknowledge.   
  
 "Didn't take him long to get back into the old routine," Jason remarks.   
  
 "Must be an update on the Viper," Princess speculates.   
  
I wonder if I should call and ask what's going on. I'm worried about this whole assassination thing. Twice before, Spectra have struck at the Chief: the first time on the Solar Express (and it occurs to me, all this time after the fact, to wonder just how much intelligence he had on that raid -- he deliberately left his own security detail behind and took us with him, instead!) and the second, more insidious attempt at poisoning, not just him but a good chunk of G-Sec Executive. Such a simple plan, and so well executed. Zoltar almost got the Chief when he attacked Science Center, but that wasn't specifically aimed at him.   
  
We've never had this kind of advance warning before. Jack Lewindowsky's people are either improving or they got incredibly lucky.   
  
Or -- and this possibility leaves a very unpleasant aftertaste -- the Counter Espionage Division has always been this good, the Chief simply hasn't chosen to share the information with us, before.   
  
"Mark?" Princess' voice pushes through the dark fog of my thoughts.   
  
"Just thinking," I deflect her concern, and feel my breath catch as it hits me: this is exactly what the Chief used to do. He'd brush us off, reassure us, avoid worrying us... I'm uncomfortable with the insight, but do I really want to share this with the team? It's only my own speculation. And besides, that's all in the past. Things are different now.   
  
I rest my chin on clasped hands, leaning on the counter, pondering.   
  
"Get you something else, Mark?" Jill asks me.   
  
"Sure," I reach for my wallet. "A refill would be great." Jill takes my empty cup and goes about making me another cup of Caro.   
  
The last eight weeks have encompassed the best times we've had as a family in a long while, with the exception of the two missions and maybe a half dozen patrols we had to fly. The Chief -- Dad -- and I spent a lot of time just talking, playing chequers (the only sporting chance I have is chequers, he whips my six at chess without even trying) and walking around Camp Parker, watching winter set in while he got his fitness levels back up to par. Jason and I offered to work out with him but he only looked at us over the rims of his spectacles and suggested family therapy might be a better option.  In he end, he went jogging with his security staff.   
  
Christmas was amazing. We had a huge tree and presents the way we used to when we were small. I felt as though I had been transported back to childhood, only it was a warmer, closer childhood than I remember, and for me at least, the real change was in the way I chose to look at things. New Year was quiet: we sat up until midnight, just talking and reflecting on the year gone by. I have some precious memories of that time, and I find myself taking them out and looking at them like photographs. Will we be able to recapture those days, I wonder?   
  
My feelings about the Chief's return to work were always going to be ambivalent: I'm glad because it means he's well again, but I'm ticked because it means vacation is over (and wasn't it considerate of Zoltar to give us a break? The Purple Party Pooper must have had to revise his plans after the pounding we gave his giant Echidna ship eight weeks back: Spectra would have been expecting a demoralised and confused response from us, but instead they got a truly righteous ass-kicking.)   
  
I suppose I'm sort of fearful, as well. This period is going to be critical: will the Chief keep us in the loop? Will he continue with the pro active parenting and the whole 'kinder, gentler, warm-and-fuzzy family relationships' thing, or will he fall back into the old behaviour patterns? And will I? Will any of us?   
  
There's only one way to find out, and that's to keep moving forward. Zark says he wishes he had a crystal ball. If he ever gets one, I bet it requires ten second oil breaks. 

 

 

* * *

**Internal Security Major Alberta Jones - ISO Plaza, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 1213 hours**

There’s a little _salon de thé_ about ten minutes’ walk from the ISO Tower.  Having been up since shortly after 0300, I badly needed to get out of the office and get some physical activity in just to wake myself up, so I've indulged in a lunchtime visit to the _salon_ to buy some tea, and I'm walking back via ISO Plaza.  Regulars know the Plaza as 'Tornado Terrace.'  A mere wind tunnel can occur on any city street where the conditions are right.  Tornado Terrace is something different again.  There are those who speculate that it's the product of a twisted mind.  The wind in Tornado Terrace doesn't just whistle through and cause havoc:  the wind in Tornado Terrace comes roaring up the Plaza, bounces off the walls, divides its forces at the very large, very expensive and indecipherable pieces of rather priapic-looking modern sculpture in the middle (actually they're a clever and rather priapic-looking obfuscation of some backup communications equipment for use in contingencies) then doubles back and does it all again.  In the midst of all this, there are any number of complex little eddies and updraughts that play havoc with hair, ties, jackets, skirts, scarves, hats, documentation and any small bird insane enough to venture into the area.  
  
My overcoat flaps and tugs in the cold January wind and I pause beneath one of the columnar, textured metal sculptures, letting my gaze follow a discarded cellophane wrapper from a cigarette packet as it floats on an air current up along the white rendered wall of the ISO Tower.  
  
The ISO Tower is the tallest building in Center City.  As its name suggests, it's the headquarters of the Interplanetary Security Organisation, or ISO. The ISO is the umbrella that controls all the armed forces and the various intelligence agencies throughout the Federation. President Kane is the Commander in Chief.  
  
The Chiefs of Staff of all the armed forces, the Emergency Services Director and the Chief of Galaxy Security all report directly to the C-in-C. Galaxy Security looks after the Intelligence, Counter Espionage, Special Projects (read: G-Force) Science and Internal Security Divisions. The Internal Security Division's Protective Services Unit – of which I and my team are a very small part -- provides protective services to VIPs like the President, high ranking officials, visiting dignitaries and such.  
  
There’s quite a tangled web of relationships in ISD: each installation has its own security, and each VIP or Chief of Staff has their own detail. As head of the detail assigned to keep Chief Anderson safe, I have a regular staff of twelve.  I have another twelve on temporary assignment for the duration of our current crisis.  That's twenty five Security Officers, all of us standing ready to put ourselves between our protection assignment and any number of bullets.  
   
When our protection assignment condescends to let us, that is.   
  
I recall that scatterbrained jaunt of his aboard the Solar Express, when Mala's elite squad evidently felt that all of them versus one Security Chief made for a fair fight.  He deliberately left me and my squad behind and took G-Force with him, instead.  He argues that it was the right decision, and he's right in that there's no way a mere protection unit could have gone up against the Galaxy Girls and survived.  I maintain that it would have been safer to take G-Force as well as rather than instead of his regular detail.  He counters this by pointing out that I'm still alive.  I'm yet to come up with a suitable rejoinder.  I hate it when he does that.   
  
This time, I'm not going to take no for an answer.  He's going to have to accept the protection of his security detail or... or I'll make coffee or something.  
  
I take one last breath of exhaust-fume laden city air before I pass under the portico and in through the big revolving doors to the air conditioned stillness of the lobby.  I stop abruptly when the security sensor fails to turn green at my approach.  
  
Sergeant Digby, on lobby duty, frowns at his console.  "Have you done something to upset the Ashcan, ma'am?" he asks me.  The Ashcan in question is 7-Zark-7, the AI unit which interfaces and networks all Galaxy Security's Earth-based IT systems.  
  
 "Hardly, Sergeant," I say, walking over to Digby and handing him my ID card.  
  
 "Let's check this baby out," he says, and gives me a quick flash of a charmingly sunny smile.  I don't return it.  "Looks like your card's on the fritz, Major," he tells me.  
  
 "Odd," I say, "it was working when I left the building less than half an hour ago."  
  
 "Well, it ain't a-workin' now!" he says, then catches the look I'm directing at him and adds, "ma'am."  
  
 "Spare me the glib commentary, Sergeant," I say.  "I'd like to get back to my office."  
  
 "Yes, ma'am."  He scowls at his console.  "If you'll just step over to the retina scanner."  I walk the five yards or so to the scanning device and look into the eyepiece.  I'm aware of a brief flicker of light, and the computer enunciator speaks in a breathy female voice:  " _Jones, Alberta Letitia, Major.  Clearance Level Four Special.  Please refer to the central database for special clearances_."  
  
 "I'll just get this reprogrammed," Digby tells me, brandishing my card.  He taps away at his console for a moment. "You must have come into contact with something that demagnetised it while you were out.  You'd better check your ATM cards as well, ma'am," he warns me.  
  
 "Thank you, Sergeant," I say stiffly.  I accept the card as he hands it back over the counter and clip it to my lapel.  This time, the security sensor flashes green as I walk up to it, and lets me through to the elevators.  
  
I punch the elevator button and stand aside to allow some visitors to get into the car before me. They’ve all been subjected to ID and security checks, but I wonder, sometimes, just who exactly Site Security lets in here.   I step into an elevator that services the top third of the building and I'm joined by a few other employees, their colour coded ID cards indicating their divisional allocations.  
  
The elevator travels at high speed for the first part of our journey, then makes several stops to let my fellow passengers out at their various destinations.  Finally, the lift stops at the 100th floor, the security sensor turning green and allowing me to exit.  I head straight for my office, where I tap the computer control pad to take the machine out of saver mode before logging in. I call up the area sweep data and check the telemetry from Nerve Center.  We recently had a direct feed from Zark’s passive sensors installed, enabling us to scan the surrounding buildings for weapons or suspicious activity. The morning shift’s report indicates that nothing alarming has taken place so far today.  
  
I’d be a lot happier if the Chief would simply agree with Jason's suggestion that he relocate to Center Neptune until Intel or Counter Espionage can neutralise the Viper and we step down from alert.  I hate Center Neptune: I keep thinking about all that water pressing down on me, just waiting to come rushing in and drown me. I can’t get away from anything when we’re at the G-Force undersea base, we’re all locked in together in a great big undersea pressure cooker, with 7-Zark-7 monitoring everything from the weather down to mouse farts. Even so, Center Neptune offers a lot more in the way of protection from assassins than Center City ever could.  The Security Detail didn't used to accompany the Chief to Center Neptune at full strength on a regular basis.  It was felt that we weren't needed, until I managed to compile an incident file big enough (including the Chief's brush with death during the Spectra raid on Science Center) to convince Director O'Hara to raise the issue at Executive Level. Since then, a minimum of four officers have been assigned to go with him on each rotation.  
  
I never thought I'd be hoping we'd head for that inverted aquarium of a place.

 

* * *

  
**G-Force Commander Mark Hawking - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 1234 hours**  
  
Galbraith and Lewindowsky are arguing about whether or not the Chief should relocate to Center Neptune.  Roly Galbraith says he should go, Lewindowsky says if he does, the Viper might vanish into the woodwork and just bide her time and kill the Chief as soon as he re-emerges.  
  
Jason is watching the two of them with a slight smirk on his face, probably because he knows (as I do) that no matter what either the Deputy Chief of Security or Colonel Lewindowsky say, the Chief will do as he pleases.  
  
 "Gentlemen," Chief Anderson says, and they both subside.  "I can see merit in both your arguments.  Further to Jason's suggestion from this morning, Bob Halloran tells me Amy Rogerson's cybernetics team can have a working robot double like the ones we used for G-Force ready in a few days' time.  If it's as convincing as the previous models, we might be able to draw the Viper out for just long enough so that Jack's team can neutralise her.  
 "There are a few considerations, however:  Jack, you mentioned that this Viper usually has someone on the inside.  If that's the case, and depending on who it is, any precautions we take may well be pointless."  
  
 "Bob's in touch with Amy," Lewindowsky says.  "The project is compartmentalised, but the problem is that to get the doppelganger ready, she's got all hands on deck, so we've locked down communications out of the Center Neptune complex.  The staff are complaining, but Human Resources are just going to have to deal with it."  
  
 "We have to make the switch as seamlessly as possible," Anderson says.  "At the moment, most of our personnel are aware that I'm only going to be at work a couple of days a week, so if I suddenly take off for Center Neptune for a week, it'll arouse suspicion.  The other issue I have with Center Neptune is that we don't know whether or not our mole has access to the complex."  
  
I feel my anger bubbling up inside me and press my hands flat down on the desk mat in front of me.  
  
 "All we seem to have here is speculation!" I exclaim.  "Can anyone provide any _facts?"_  
  
 "That," Roly Galbraith sighs, "seems to be our biggest problem."  
  
I can only assume that Galbraith thinks an acknowledgment that the dearth of information as a problem is supposed to help, somehow.  It doesn't.  
  
Anderson breaks the building silence by speaking again: "Until such time as Special Projects has their machine up and running, I'm going to keep to my original schedule.  We'll arrange for the switch at the earliest possible date, then I'll go to Center Neptune and wait for Jack to catch us a snake, but not before.  Mark," he says, "what are your thoughts on security arrangements?"  
  
He's looking at me.  
  
He's asking my opinion in the middle of a meeting.  
  
He's never done that before.  
  
My mind races.  The child in me wants him to retreat to Center Neptune right now and stay there for as long as it takes, but I know this time, he's right.  
  
 "Chief," I say, "none of us wants to see you put at risk, but it looks like the only way to catch this assassin is for her to think she can get to you.  It pains me to say it, but I think you should stick to your schedule.  We really need more information before we can make a decision on exactly how and where you disappear.  If we lock down Center Neptune and base the team there, it won't be the social highlight of the century, but it's about as safe as it's going to get."  
  
 "Thank you, Commander," the Chief says.  Jason raises an eyebrow at me.  I ignore him.  
  
 "Chief," Jack Lewindowsky says, "I've seen those robot doubles.  They don't stand up to close scrutiny.  The Viper will go to ground the minute she realises we've put in a substitute."  
  
 "Close scrutiny?" Jason echoes.  "I hope you weren't planning on letting her get that close!"  
  
 "The Chief's security detail can run interference for the double," I suggest.  "We get Al to stick to it like a burr and steer it around.  She knows the Chief's routine, so she can make things look as close to normal as possible."  
  
 "I'd rather have my senior staff on hand," the Chief says, "but you're right, Commander."  
  
  
It's nearly thirteen hundred hours when Jason and I tap at the office door belonging to the head of the Chief's security detail.  
  
 "Sirs," Major Alberta Jones greets us, rising out of her seat.  Al is one of the few people who treats me like an officer all the time, whether I'm in uniform or in civvies.  I'm half her age, but she's always as formal and deferential with me as she is with the Chief.  "You're here about the security checks?" she asks.  When I nod, she picks up a data strip and an armful of personnel files.  "HR sent up the information about half an hour ago.  I've booked the small conference room," she tells me.  "We can spread these out on the table."  
  
 "Let me take some of those," Jason offers, and she gives him about half the files.  I take the rest of them from her, leaving her with the palm unit and data strip.  The manilla folders are smooth and they slip around in my hands.  
  
"You'll be pleased to know he's decided to go to Center Neptune," I tell her as we walk to the conference room.  
  
 "Thank you for telling me, sir," she says.  "When are we leaving?"  
  
 "A few days," I say, "but you'll be staying here to drive the robot double and make sure it acts like Chief Anderson."  
  
 "Very good, sir," she says.  
  
We settle in to the conference room.  "I'd like to start with your existing team," I tell Jones.  
  
 "Of course, sir."  She arranges the hard copy files as I log into the computer.  "We could start with me, if you like."  
  
 "Already done," Jason tells her.  She nods, and I can't tell from her expression whether she minds or not.  
  
I spent a couple of hours this morning picking over this woman's life while Jason did the same with the team's 2IC.  I found myself alternating between feeling like a heel for doing it and feeling that if I didn't do it, I wouldn't be able to rest easy.  The Chief's security detail gets almost as close to him as we do.  Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, there's always at least one of them awake and on duty, either working at a fixed station or prowling around on patrol or shadowing him while he's out.  I'm satisfied that Al Jones appears to be clean.  She's also incredibly boring.  Zark provided me with a complete rundown on her financial and communications records:  the woman's biggest indulgence appears to be gardening.  Zark gave me access to her private e-mail and phone records. Her brother's a professor of paleontology on Planet Vega. They have long conversations about holes in the ground.  It was so banal, I nearly fell asleep.  
  
We go through fourteen files to start with:  her twelve current SOs and two who transferred out recently.  There are only three men and a woman who are married with children, one widower with two kids, one in a sort of steady relationship; one of the family men has had a recent large deposit in his bank account, but that was from a legitimate inheritance; the newest member of the team -- Terry Falcone -- is considered somewhat of a cowboy, Jones is unhappy with his performance, but it's hardly a hanging offence to refer to the Chief as, "Head Honcho" and "Top Banana," although I'm sure the Chief would be less than impressed.  
  
There are another twelve to look at after that, these being the staff temporarily assigned from other areas of ISD.  Colonel O'Hara's people have deliberately chosen personnel who are normally based at other installations in the hope of lessening the likelihood that one of them is our mole.  I feel like some kind of voyeur, probing into other people's lives, and when we adjourn for a break, I say as much to Jason.  
  
 "Better safe than sorry," Jason points out, handing me a tea bag.  
  
 "It still feels weird, Jason," I insist.  I glance around but Al is still in the ladies' room, powdering her nose or whatever it is women take so long about.  
  
 "What's the big secret?  Al's love life more interesting than yours?"  
  
 "About the same -- as in nonexistent," I say, "but that's not the point.  The point is, if I can delve into the nitty gritty details of these people's private lives, what's to stop anyone with the right clearances delving into the same nitty gritty details of mine?"  
  
 "Nothing," Jason says, his expression open.  "You know how it is for us.  You can try to edit it out of your awareness by not thinking about it, but it's always there.  Zark could probably give each one of us stats on how many times a day we pick our noses."  
  
 "Jason, that's gross," I complain.  
  
 "It's reality, down and dirty," he says.  "Don't get me wrong, I resent the heck out of it, but until this war's over, nobody has a whole lotta choice."   
  
  
By the time we're done, it's after five thirty.  We pack away the personnel files and lock them in Jones' filing cabinet.  
  
As we're leaving, I wave Jason on and hang back in Al Jones' office. "This is probably going to sound kind of dumb," I say, "but I was wondering if you could do me a favour."  
  
"That depends on what you’re asking for, sir," she says.  
  
"Keep an eye on the Chief?" I request. "You know what he's like.  He's only supposed to be here for a couple of days, so you just know he's going to work late.  Drag him out from behind his desk and frogmarch him home if you have to.  He’s only just getting over that heart attack, and I’m worried that he’ll overdo it.  Help me out?"  
  
She gives me a sympathetic look. "We'll all do our best, Commander," she says.

 

* * *

**  
Chief of Galaxy Security David Anderson - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 1750 hours**

Usually, when I'm on such vacations as I've been able to get since the war began, I continue handling particular issues and carry on with some of the duties of my position. My heart attack necessitated complete rest for a while, and my physician, the tyrannical Kate Halloran, MD, made sure my family enforced her prescription. Even Kate's husband Bob, the Director Special Projects and one of my best friends from college, telephoned regularly to check that I was behaving myself.  
  
It was wonderful while it lasted, and now I find myself sitting at my desk, wading through a mountain of paperwork. It's by no means a full eight weeks' worth:  my deputies took care of most things, but it was necessary that some things be left for my attention on my return.  
  
I stretch in my chair and consider the virtues of getting a cup of coffee. Mark has left me a single cup plunger and a sealed brick of Columbian blend, which I've already opened. I measure the coffee into the plunger and venture outside to the executive kitchen to get some hot water. There are two security officers talking in the corridor.  
  
"I suppose it's too much to hope for that you guys are going to think of me while you're out kicking up your heels, Cap'n," says one of them, a young man with a New York accent.  What's his name?  Falcone, that's it.  
  
"Wa-a-y too much," replies his companion, a tall woman whose voice is a pleasant contralto with a slight southern twang. I have no difficulty recognising Captain Alban, 2IC of my security detail. "But maybe we'll have one for you. Bairstow's with McGovern from Site down in the Control Room if you need him."   
  
I take my coffee back to my office and leave the door open.  If I can get through this stack of Council minutes this evening, I stand some chance of being up to speed for the next ISO meeting, and I can start reviewing the Federation Council proceedings tomorrow.  
  
The coffee smells good. I depress the plunger and pour the beverage into my cup.  
  
Back in my office, I keep adding to my list of things I need to address at the next Council meeting.  I really need to catch up with Roly about most of this stuff.  
  
 "Why are you still here?" Mark's voice breaks my concentration.  
  
 "I'm almost done," I say.  
  
 "Jason's car is downstairs," he offers.  "We could drive you home."  
  
I glance past Mark to see Jason lounging in Gunny' empty office, leaning, arms folded, against the door frame.  
  
 "I'm going to finish reviewing these minutes," I say firmly.  "I can either finish up here and leave them, or I can take them home."  
  
 "No way," Mark says, leaning over my desk.  "You're not taking work home."  
  
 "Then why don't you and Jason head home, yourselves?" I suggest.  "Like I said, I'm almost done."  
  
 "Chief..."  
  
 "Mark," I cut him off, "I feel fine.  I'm going to finish reading these minutes, then I'm going home."  
  
He eyes me dubiously.  "Okay," he says.  "But if you don't, I'll report you to a higher authority."  
  
 "Don't even think about calling Kate Halloran," I tell him, "or I'll assign you to patrol the Antarctic base without a vehicle."  
  
 "Don't overdo it," he counters, and runs from the office before I can frame a retort.  
  
If this goes on for more than a day, I'm going to start getting seriously annoyed.

 


	4. 1930 - 2040

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set highly trained and well armed security personnel to catch a thief. It's more straightforward that way and they already know which forms to fill in afterward.

**Internal Security Major Alberta Jones - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 1940 hours**  
  
With the last of the security checks finally complete, I've spent an indeterminate amount of time working the rosters.  I'm pairing the new staff with the experienced staff, assigning each one a 'buddy,' and writing myself out of the equation so that I can participate in the planned deception of the Viper.  I'm torn between having my most trustworthy senior staff with the cybernetic double to ensure our end goes smoothly, and sending them to guard Chief Anderson at Center Neptune.  I'm trying to strike a balance, and it's getting hard to see straight.  
  
 "Hey, boss, how long have you been here?" Terry Falcone demands.  I blink and struggle to focus on his face.  
  
 "Too long," I grumble.  
  
 "No offence, Major," he says, "but you look like the living dead!"  
  
 "Duly noted," I retort. "Is that the time?"  I'm suddenly alert.  "But if you're still here," I connect the dots, "that means _he's_ still here!"  
  
 "That's usually the way it works," Falcone says, accepting the undefined male pronoun for what it usually means.  I suppose I should be grateful he didn't use the word, 'duh.'  
  
I log out of the computer, pull on my overcoat and pick up my purse.  "Who's with him?" I ask.  
  
 "I came down here to check on you when Fran said your light was on," Falcone says.  
  
 "And exactly where _is_ Lieutenant Patrick?" I ask, sounding waspish even to my own ears.  
  
 "We just flipped for take out run.  She lost."  
  
 "And Bairstow?"  
  
 "Downstairs in the control room with McGovern from Site."  He gives me an exasperated look.  "Major, everything's under control.  Cory called in sick but Ray contacted Josh and he's on his way in.  He'll be here within the hour.  McGovern said that Digby came in to do some overtime, so with two guys on for Site downstairs, we're at full strength and then some!"  
  
 "Thank you, Lieutenant."  I frown.  There was something in what Terry just said that I should be thinking about, but I'm tired, and I want to go home and go to sleep.  Rostering, yes, that was it, if Josh is coming in to stand third watch, I need to rework the rosters again, but not now.  I'll do it tomorrow.  I secure the office and lock the door.  
  
I trudge up the corridor to where light floods out of Chief Anderson's open door.  I wish he wouldn't work with his door wide open like that.  He's got a perfectly good security lock on it.  I steel myself for the inevitable head butting session to come, and knock.  
  
He glances up at me.  "You look like hell," he says absently.  
  
 "Thank you, sir," I say wearily.  
  
 "Have you been here all day?" he asks.  
  
That would have to qualify as an extraordinarily silly question.  With an effort, I modulate my voice to keep it mild.  "Yes, sir," I say.   
  
No good.  He picks up on something, either the timbre of my voice or the look on my face, because his expression changes from one of mild annoyance to utter exasperation.  "I thought I told you before," he says, "I don't want to hear it!"  
  
Right.  If that's the way he wants it:  "Then go home before I call Dr Halloran, sir," I suggest.  
  
 "Did Mark put you up to this?" he asks.  
  
 "It's a conspiracy, sir," I confess.  "There's a dark and sinister plot afoot to keep you alive and healthy."  
  
 "I didn't know you cared," he says sourly.  
  
 "Sir," I can hear it, myself, now, a note of irritation creeping into my voice, and I’m suddenly weary. I’m too tired to stand on ceremony so I throw courtesy to the winds and sit down without being asked.  "You’re still recovering from a heart attack and there’s a Spectran assassin swanning about out there doing who-knows-what with a mandate from Zoltar to kill you. How is wearing yourself out going to help anyone other than the enemy?" I decide not to wait for an answer.  "If you want me to stop nagging, go home, otherwise I’m going to stay here and annoy you all night."  
  
 "In the first place," he says, "I'm not about to drop dead, and in the second..."  A wry smile plays around his mouth and reaches his eyes.  "And in the second," he continues, "you must be royally pissed to suggest spending the night with me."  
  
I fall back on a standard response:  "How _do_ I resist your charm sir?"  
  
 "You're definitely pissed off," he decides, his voice rich with amusement.  He gives me an appraising look.  "What would you do if I gave in and went home?" he wonders.  
  
 "Repent, I imagine," I tell him.  "It'd mean there is a God."  
  
 "And what would you have to repent?" he twits me.  
  
For a moment I consider telling him in explicit detail that I would repent of a recurrent fantasy where I surrender to a slow burning desire to beat my protection assignment about the head with a large, recently thawed haddock.  Instead I simply smile a very small smile and say, "I decline to answer, sir, on the grounds that I may incriminate myself."  
  
Still looking pleased with himself at having provoked me into sarcasm, he opens a channel on his desk phone. "Commander."  
  
After a moment, I hear Mark's voice: " _Ears on, Chief_ ," comes the reply from the comm unit.  
  
"Your conspiracy is working," Anderson says. "I’m being escorted out of my office by Security."  
  
The communicator chuckles. " _Don’t you take any work home_."  
  
"Good night, Mark," Anderson says.  
  
" _’Night, Dad_."

 

* * *

**Spectran Operative Code Name "Viper" - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 1945 hours**  
  
I tense as I approach the security barrier.  If the copied ID card does not work, we will have to try for a more direct approach.  My cat's paw has assured me that the rightful owner of this card finished her shift hours ago.  Another shift change took place a short time ago, and that a young female member of the security detail just left the building to buy food, something that would never happen if her superior were here.  They are decadent, these Terrans.

  _"Ready?"_ Hogat asks me over my concealed comm.

 "Ready," I confirm.

In the shadows, my backup team are waiting.  I stride purposefully up to the security station.  The LED turns green and the gate opens, letting me into the underground car park.  I allow myself a smile, then compose my features.  The woman I am meant to be does not smile, at least in any of the images I have seen of her.

There is a security office near the elevator lobby.  A security officer makes a perfunctory salute.  I return it smartly.

 "You!" I snap. "Stand at attention!"

He does so, resentment flaring in his eyes.  "Ma'am," he acknowledges me.

 "You're half asleep!" I accuse him.  "Look lively, man!"  I cross the elevator lobby to another door.  Again, the security sensor turns green and admits me.  I walk down an echoing corridor noting that there are security barrier doors in this area which could be made to close in an emergency.  I walk up to a large reinforced door.  It is marked, 'CONTROL ROOM:  AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY.'  The LED turns green, and I push it open.

 "Major Jones!" my paramour, not recognising me in the mask and uniform, turns pale.  No doubt he thinks I am the real Jones, and his plan to let his journalist lover into the building is foiled.  He salutes, as does the other Sergeant and the Lieutenant.

 "I need your terminal, Sergeant," I tell him.

 "Is there a problem, boss?" the fair haired Lieutenant asks me.  I study his face.  He is one of Anderson's detail.  His name is Bairstow.  Raymond Bairstow.

 "Not yet, Lieutenant," I warn, remembering to use Jones' odd pronounciation of the rank.  She speaks an idiosyncratic dialect of English, rather than Earth Standard.  It has taken me a while to perfect it.

The other personnel step aside and grant me access to the terminal.  I disable the exterior security to let my squad in.

 "What the hell are you doing?" Bairstow breathes, and I round on him, my gun drawn, before he can react.

 My men rush into the room and disarm the Galaxy Security personnel.

 "Secure the area," I order.  "Leave one man here with this one -- " I indicate Digby -- "in case we need to access the security systems.  If he tries anything heroic, kill him."  I hurry out of the control room and head for the elevators.

 

* * *

  
**Internal Security Major Alberta Jones - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 1947 hours**  
  
  
Chief Anderson finally puts his work aside, but if he's waiting for me to leave before he does, he'll have a long wait on his hands.  Besides, I'm too tired to get up out of this chair.  My limbs feel like lead and my brain feels like cold porridge.  
  
My palm unit chirps from inside my pocket. I extract it even as a chime sounds from Anderson’s desk. We both consult our respective readouts.  
  
"Well, Major," Anderson observes, drawing a hand gun and levelling it at me. "It appears you’ve just walked in through the car park entrance."  
  
Adrenaline surges through my system and all of a sudden I have more important things to worry about than my brain feeling like cold porridge.  The alarm on the system came from the building security computer pinging my ID as I entered the car park.  Only, my ID is clipped to my jacket and I'm not in the car park, I'm here.  The computer has my location registered, so one of the ID pings has to be false.  I try not to stare at the barrel of the gun but maintain eye contact with Anderson.  I read somewhere that it's harder to shoot someone if they're looking you in the eye.  I wouldn't know, never having had occasion to shoot anyone while they were looking me in the eye.  I rather hope it's true.  (Mind you, it's Security Chief Anderson at the other end of the gun.  If he thinks I need shooting, it won't make one bit of difference where I'm looking: he'll shoot me, and when Anderson shoots something, it stays shot.)  
  
"Yes, it does," I agree. I can hear the tremor in my voice, and my hand quivers slightly as I put the palm unit down on the desk where he can see the readout that confirms what his own computer has told him. I keep my hands where he can see them, resting them on the desk so he won't see them shaking.  "How do you prefer that I confirm my identity, sir?"  He’s got the choice of fingerprints, retina scanning or DNA screen (although this last takes at least half an hour to process and requires the lab computer.)  
  
Terry Falcone is in through the door and I hear the click of his weapon's safety catch behind me.  My heart thuds against my ribs.  It's one thing to face down an enemy in the heat of the moment, quite another to stare coldly down the barrel of a gun held by my protection assignment and know that another one is being trained on me from behind by a member of my own squad.  
  
 "Sir?" Falcone enquires of Anderson.  Against my better judgement, my eyes flicker over Anderson's gun again.   
  
 "Hold your position, Lieutenant," Anderson instructs him.  The Chief reaches one hand over the other to tap the comm unit on the desk. "Zark, ears on."  
  
 " _Yes, Chief – oh, my!_ "  
  
The Animated Ashcan must have visual feed from the office.  
  
 "Oh, my, indeed," I mutter under my breath.  My mouth has gone dry and my tongue wants to cement itself to my soft palate.  
  
 "Zark," Anderson says, "can you get a retina scan on Major Jones from here?"  
  
 " _I’m terribly sorry, Chief Anderson_ ," the Ashcan’s voice says from Anderson’s wrist, " _but I can’t get that kind of resolution on the building scanners. You’d have to proceed to the nearest security point. There’s a scanner by the elevator_."  
  
 "We don’t have time for that," Anderson snaps. "Get me a visual on the individual who just used Major Jones’ ID to enter the building."  Another alarm sounds.  My natural response is to reach for my palm unit and respond but I daren't move.  Anderson keeps the gun trained on me and checks his desktop screen.  "External security is down."  
  
 "Sir -- " I start.  
  
 "Wait," he snaps.  
  
" _Oh, dear_ ," Zark burbles again, and there is a brief pause. " _Here you are, Chief. It certainly looks like Major Jones, but my sensors indicate that this person is not wearing standard issue Galaxy Security footwear.  She's appears to be the same height as the Major, but it's because her heels are half an inch lower than those on regular uniform boots.  I think we may have an imposter!"_  
  
Cold sweat breaks out across my skin.  I've never been so grateful for being five feet six and a half inches tall rather than five feet seven.  
  
 "Scramble G-Force," Anderson says. He puts the safety back on the gun and tucks it back in his shoulder holster.  At least he’s wearing one. "Sorry about that," he says.  
  
 "No need, sir," I manage to say, breathing deeply.  I'm still shaking.  
  
 "I was referring to Zark," Anderson said.  
  
Oh.  That.  
  
 "Stand down, Lieutenant," I tell Falcone.  He holsters his weapon, concern snapping in his dark eyes.  I get out of my chair and circle around to the Chief's side of the desk to peer at the visual feed Zark has provided. The security scanners track a woman in an ISD Security Officer’s uniform wearing a Major’s insignia and a badge with my name on it. Anderson taps the keypad and the camera zooms in on what looks like my own face.   I feel slightly ill.  
  
 "She sorta looks like you, boss," Falcone says.  "Might fool people for a second or two," he lies, trying to be charitable.  I give him a look that would peel paint and he fidgets.  "Okay," he admits, "she looks a _lot_ like you."  I fold my arms and glower.  
  
 "Try, without Zark's sensors measuring her height, she'd fool us all," Anderson corrects.  
  
 "I doubt G-Force will be able to get here in time to apprehend her," I say. "Shall we escort you to the Emergency Control Room, sir?" I take a quick mental inventory of our firepower:  each of us is carrying a standard issue sidearm, but there's nothing larger available to us here.  
  
"No," Anderson says, his brows knitting thoughtfully. "Let’s see if we can use the opportunity to complete a couple of the objectives of this operation."  
  
I stare at him, but he isn’t joking. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**G-Force Commander Mark Hawking – Snack J Cafe, Planet Earth:  January 13, 2003 hours.**  
  
All five of our communicators chirp and Zark starts speaking without waiting for our acknowledgment.  
  
 " _Scramble, G-Force!_ " the robot says. " _Chief Anderson is in grave danger. The Viper has infiltrated the ISO Tower!_ "  
  
The _Phoenix_ is docked at Seahorse Base, not far from here. I have to think on my feet.  
  
 "Big ten, Zark," I snap into my wrist comm. "Tiny, you and Keyop high-tail it to the _Phoenix_ and get her in the air. Jason, make best speed to the ISO Tower. Princess, I’ll need a lift."  
  
 "You got it, Commander," Princess says. Jason is already running for the door, car keys in hand.  
  
Princess doesn’t transmute.  Even though it's only a little after eight, there's a festival on in the city and traffic will be heavy.  The G-3 takes up more room in Galacticycle mode than it is in civilian mode, and though it’ll make for a less comfortable ride for the pillion passenger (ie: me) we’ll be able to weave through traffic and make better time this way.  
  
Jason, on the other hand, has already transmuted to G-Force mode and he’s roaring off into the street. We’ve generally found that when their rear view mirrors fill with the G-2, other drivers tend to get out of the way without having to be asked more than once.  
  
I swing onto the back of Princess’ bike and wait for her to get settled before I put my arms around her waist. Under any other circumstances, I’d enjoy this, but I’m too worried about the Chief to let my hormones get carried away with me, now.  
  
I ask Zark for a run-down and he broadcasts to all five of us what he’s got: someone appears to have hacked into the ISO Tower’s Site Security system and is impersonating Major Jones. The Chief is in his office with the real Major Jones and Lieutenant Falcone, and they’re not heading for the fortified Emergency Control Room, they’re staying put, with only a sidearm each for protection.  
  
And I thought _I_ was running on testosterone, what the hell do they think they’re doing?  
  
"Don’t even think about saying it," Princess tosses the words over her shoulder. "I’m going as fast as I can!" 

 

* * *

**Chief of Galaxy Security David Anderson - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 2010 hours**

If we can pull this off, it will render the better part of a day's work redundant.

Assuming we’re successful.

But luck has been with me so far, hopefully it won’t desert me just yet.

The two security officers with me move with the decisive, adrenaline driven competence that comes with their job.

Zark accesses the building systems to dim the lights in my office and brings up the ones in the corridor outside. I watch the Viper getting into the elevator. While there, she speaks to someone over a comm unit of some kind, and she smiles. It isn’t a pleasant smile.   Jones is trying to raise the Site Security personnel on her comm, without success.  She closes the channel on her palm unit and exchanges worried looks with Falcone, her face pale and drawn.

My last glimpse of the computer screen as I move into position shows the Viper readying herself to leave the elevator car. I feel a surge of white hot anger at this woman who dares invade my life with the express purpose of taking it. Zoltar must be getting desperate if he’s focussing all this attention on me. It occurs to me that I should be relieved he isn’t going after my kids.

Falcone settles in my chair and positions himself as though he's working at the computer.

Jones and I back up next to the door and I take a look back at the desk. There’s a dim shape in my chair, one that, to my eyes, doesn’t look anything like me, but it should serve for what we need. I’ve always known that my Security people were, to a man, prepared to take a bullet for me, but I always thought it would be in the heat of the moment, not cold blooded and premeditated like this. I’ve put another human being in the firing line, one I hardly even know. If the Viper shoots first and asks questions later, I’ll have a dead Security Officer on my conscience.

There’s a knock at my door. The door opens.

A slender form takes a step inside, speaking as she does so. "Chief Anderson?" it's a good imitation of Jones’ cut glass voice.

Jones pounces.

The Viper snarls and twists free with surprising ease.  She shouldn't have been able to do that.  I make a grab for her gun hand and she actually drags me forward.  Jones has the Viper's other arm and has the heel of one hand in the assassin's face, forcing her chin up. I’m aware of movement as Falcone rounds the desk to assist us. She's too strong to be a normal human being, but between Jones and myself, we're keeping her off balance. I hook a foot in under the leg she’s balancing on and bring us both crashing down on the carpet. The butt of my pistol connects brutally with her skull once, twice, and she flops limp and inert, stunned.

Jones is left standing over me with the Viper's wig and mask in one hand and her sidearm in the other.  I look down at a delicate, heart shaped face that in repose, is almost breathtakingly beautiful. I take the weapon from the Viper's flaccid hand and the lights come up in response to Jones’ order to Zark over the comm. Jones tosses the wig and mask aside and stands over the Viper with her gun at the ready while I step clear and straighten my tie.

 "Nice move, sir," Falcone compliments me.

 "It’s been a while since I had to do anything like that," I remark, pleased with myself.

 "Bit like riding a bicycle, isn't it, sir?" Jones says wryly. "Let’s have a closer look at our little snake, shall we?"

Falcone and I stand back as Jones pulls open the unconscious woman’s uniform and starts searching the Viper.  While she does so, I head for my desk.  There’s a secret compartment in all the Executive desks with security equipment, including a set of handcuffs (this leads to all kinds of ribald jokes about what could conceivably take place on this floor.)  I fetch the restraints so that Jones can secure our prisoner to one of the visitor’s chairs.

"Interesting," says Jones, and I can’t tell from her tone whether –

(a) The Viper has dropped dead on us;  
(b) Jones has broken a nail; or  
(c) A suicide bomb is about to go off, killing us all.

"What is it, Major?" I ask. A particularly pertinent question, to my mind.

"Comm unit, sir."

I walk over and look. An ornate but wickedly functional looking knife lies safely out of reach, and Jones hands me what looks like a lapel pin shaped like a devil-cat's head.

"I haven't seen one of these up close before, sir," she remarks.

"I have," I tell her.  "This could be useful," I speculate.  "What are you like at impersonations, Major?"

"I suspect we'll soon know, sir," Jones says.

"See what you can find out," I tell her.

"Very good, sir.  I take it the face is touch sensitive?"

"That's right," I say.

Jones ponders the exotic item for a moment, then touches a forefinger to the surface. The cat's eyes glow. "This is Viper, come in," she speaks _sotto voce_ into the unit.

" _Viper, this is Base, what happened?_ " demands an accented voice.

"Mission accomplished," Jones whispers, using a pseudo-Spectran accent. "Anderson is dead," she lies.

" _What about his guards?_ "

"They have not yet detected me," Jones improvises.

" _Stay where you are. We will extract you_ ," the Spectran says. " _Two and Three are already in the building_."

I curse silently. She has backup.

Falcone takes up position at the door, weapon at the ready.

"What is their ETA my position?" Jones demands.

" _Two and Three have neutralised the Security guards on duty.  They are securing the area, now. They are approximately five minutes from you."_

"Very well," Jones says, and cuts the connection.  She puts the comm unit down on my desk, her face pale and tense.

I stab a speed-connect key on my palm unit. "Zark, are you monitoring the building systems, here?"

" _I was just taking a ten second oil break, Chief,"_ says the robot, and I bite back a curse.

"How far away is G-Force?" I ask.

" _Approximately_ _ten minutes_."

"Listen carefully, Zark:  I want you to locate enemy infiltrators in the building. Numbers unknown. When you see them get into the elevator to my office, simulate a malfunction between the fourth and fifth floors and lock them in." The fourth and fifth floors are administrative areas, large, empty areas with cubicles rather than proper offices. It’s the best option I can think of, with the alternatives being plant rooms or server rooms, or areas with real walls for hiding behind.

" _Big ten, Chief_ ," says the robot, and signs off.

One of these days, I’m going to have him turned into an abstract sculpture.


	5. 2040 - 2100

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is 'infestation' the collective noun for Spectrans? Chief Anderson would say it was.

**Internal Security Major Alberta Jones - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 2042 hours**  
  
 "Sir," I say, "my recommendation is that we have Zark guide us around the enemy's position to the Emergency Control Room.  We can make it far more secure than your office could ever be.  We'll have to take her --" I jerk my head in the direction of our prisoner -- "with us."  
  
 "G-Force will be here, soon," he assures me.  "Hopefully, all we'll have to do now is sit tight."  
  
 "Sir --"  
  
 "If it becomes necessary, Major, we'll follow your plan.  Until then, we wait."  
  
 "We'd be a lot better off moving out now, sir, while we have the option, or we could end up being pinned down."  
  
 "We wait, Major, that's an order."  
  
 "Sir, I protest!" I deliberately step into his personal space, so that he can't ignore me or brush me off lightly.  We stand toe to toe.  
  
 "Your objection is noted," he says, raising his voice and glaring at me.  We eyeball each other for a moment while I weigh up the viability of disabling him and dragging him bodily to safety.  The one problem with that plan is that if it came down to it, he'd probably finish up disabling me.  I suspect I'm quicker than he is, but he's bigger, stronger, and most likely meaner then me.  Oh, let's face it, I wouldn't have a prayer.  
  
I'm obliged to settle for giving him a filthy look.  "Yes, sir," I say.  He steps away from me and I've lost another battle of wills to this impossible man.  
  
The Chief is back at his desk, now, bringing up the big briefing screens and calling up various displays, including a feed from Zark as the robot coordinator scans the building at high speed, looking for weapons and energy readings.  
  
The tele-comm beeps.  
  
 " _Chief Anderson_ ," Zark's voice says, " _I've located the missing Security officers:  there are three of them, alive, tied up and locked in an equipment duct on level two_ , _and there's one in the Control Room_."  
  
 "Good," the Chief says, almost absently.  He's focussing on the computer readouts, trying to get a handle on our situation.  I allow myself the indulgence of feeling relieved.  
  
I decide to see to the prisoner.  If we're staying put, then there are a couple of things I need to take care of.  I get my pocket knife out (no girl should be without a pocket knife) and rummage with impunity in the top drawer of the Chief's pedestal return until I find a nice big roll of adhesive tape.  It's the ordinary clear yellowish acetate kind, but beggars can't be choosers, and I'm in a pinch, so it will have to do.  
  
The Viper still appears to be unconscious, slumped in the chair we left her in, although she could be pretending.  I find the end of the tape, and proceed to secure her free hand to the arm of her chair, using about half the roll.  It's a noisy business, since the tape makes crackling, zipping noises, but she doesn't stir.  I decide it's better to be safe than sorry and use the rest of the tape on her ankles, attaching them to the chair legs.  I check her vital signs.  She has a strong, steady pulse, and satisfied that I'm unlikely to kill her by waking her up, I give both her shoulders a jolly hard squeeze as per the 'Handling of an Unconscious Person' manual.  
  
And I don't care if I have to answer to an investigation for leaving bruises.  
  
The Viper tenses, and jolts into full wakefulness, although she seems to have some trouble focussing her eyes.  She is wearing hazel contact lenses and one of them is slipping.  
  
 "Hallo," I greet her.  She blinks, shakes her head, and the loose contact pops out, revealing that she has grey eyes.  I can see the wheels turning as she tries to work out what's happened.  She tugs at the handcuffs.  "I'm afraid you're on a rather sticky wicket," I explain.  She shakes her head, as though to clear it, then spits at my feet in apparent contempt.  Given my position (that is to say, holding a gun, and not bound up with an entire roll of adhesive tape) I'm inclined to be charitable, so I ignore her, which probably annoys her more than if I'd reacted in anger.  
  
 "Earth filth," she snarls sulkily. She tugs at the handcuffs, hard enough that the force of her motion makes the chair tilt and totter. Her left wrist is taped tightly enough that she can't move it.  
  
 "Is our guest awake?" Anderson asks.  
  
 "Yes, sir."  
  
 "Take over on the data readout," Anderson orders.  
  
 "Yes, sir."  As he passes me, I catch a glimpse of his expression and I shudder. I wouldn't want to be in the Viper's shoes right now.  
  
Zark is feeding data down the link at a tremendous rate.  
  
 " _I have hostiles detected in lift car nine.  Simulating malfunction as instructed.  Car has halted between levels four and five.  Hostiles detected in the south western fire escape stairwell, climbing through level six_ ," Zark announces.  
  
 "Visual on the stairwell, please," I say.  The main screen lights up with the image:  four people in Spectran fatigues, armed with laser rifles.  
  
 "Lock all fire escape doors," I order.  "Override building management system and isolate fire control."  
  
 " _Big ten, Major_!" Zark says cheerfully, and complies.  
  
I see the Spectrans stop and exchange glances as a series of loud clicks echoes up and down the stairwell -- all of the doors are locking.  In most buildings, this would be impossible -- not to mention illegal under the building code -- but the ISO has its own special requirements.  (Naturally, the Center City Fire Department hates us with a passion.)  I hear a low whine as the big fans on the roof power up and start pumping air into the fire escapes -- a standard safety feature to keep smoke out of the stairwells during an evacuation, but it's going to make things very noisy and very uncomfortable for our uninvited visitors.  More to the point, I'm hoping the ungodly din will make radio communication difficult.  Almost on cue, one of the Spectrans starts talking into a communicator.  
  
  _Two and Three_ , the Spectran controller had said.  One in the stairwell, one in the lifts. I grab the Viper's comm unit, but it makes no sound. They must be using a closed channel talk-around, and if they are, they must have a portable repeater somewhere.  
  
 "Zark, could I have audio from the stairwell, please?"  
  
 " _Of course_ ," says the robot suavely.  " _I'll even filter out most of the noise_."  
  
 "Thank you," I say automatically.  
  
I hear the Spectran making a radio call to Unit Two.  That means we've got Unit Three in the stairwell and that leaves Unit Two in the elevators.   
  
  _"The soldiers in the elevator are breaking out through the ceiling of the car_ ," Zark announces.   _"They're attaching some kind of pulley device to the cable."_  
  
 "Can we trap them at the top of the shaft?" I ask.  
  
  _"Negative.  There's maintenance access at the top of the shaft."_  
  
 "Ground the lift.  Let's make it as difficult for them as we can."  
  
  _"The elevators are already grounding, Major..."_   It shouldn't be possible for a machine to sound worried, but Zark sounds worried.   _"Initiating system diagnostics."_  
  
 "Sir," I begin, turning towards Chief Anderson.  
  
 "Yes," he says shortly.  
  
  


* * *

  
**Chief of Galaxy Security David Anderson - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 2044 hours**  
  
I hear Jones speaking to the prisoner.  
  
 "Is our guest awake?" I ask.  
  
 "Yes, sir," Jones says calmly.  
  
 "Take over on the data readout," I order.  
  
 "Yes, sir."  
  
The Viper -- this feared assassin who was sent quite specifically to kill me -- watches me through slitted eyes as I approach.  She has her right wrist handcuffed to one arm of the chair, and her left wrist secured to the other arm by what looks like about half a mile of acetate office tape all bunched up into a sticky and damned near indestructable synthetic sleeve.  Jones has taped the Viper's ankles to the chair legs, securing her to the point where we would only need sufficient postage to mail her just about anywhere in the Galaxy.  
  
I take a deep breath to try and control my fury:  this creature of Zoltar's has killed too many good men and women to be considered worthy of mercy.  She would have ended my life without so much as a thought.  Would she have stopped at me?  Would she then have hunted down my children and murdered them, too?  
  
I study my would-be assassin for a moment:  she is almost a stereotype, a lithe, fragile beauty trained to kill.  Somehow, I doubt the families of her many victims would spend much time dwelling on her loveliness.  She is almost too perfect. I wonder if she is fully human, or some clever amalgam out of Spectra's cyborg labs.  I wonder if I really care.  
  
On the edges of my awareness, Jones is carrying on a conversation with Zark.  I glare into the Viper's large, luminous eyes - one hazel behind a tinted contact lens, the other grey -- she must have lost the other lens in the scuffle.  Fleetingly, I note that her pupils appear to be unequal, and I allow myself a moment's satisfaction at having given her concussion. Her brain and eyes are human, at least.  
  
 "Where's your mobile command unit?" I demand.  
  
She smirks at me. "Is that the best you can do?"  
  
My right hand twitches, my fingers itching for the grip and the trigger of a gun.  "It would be better for you if you cooperate," I suggest.  "We're not going to let you go."  
  
A contemptuous snort escapes her nostrils. "You think you can keep me?" She tries to kick out at me but her ankles are taped to the chair legs and she only succeeds in making the chair lurch.  
  
I could end it here and now by merely drawing my gun, putting it to her head and pulling the trigger.   There would be a sharp, muffled retort; blood and bone and brain would spray across the carpet and onto the furniture, and she would slump in her chair, with half her head blown away, no longer able to hurt anyone, no longer able to stalk her prey and ruin lives, no longer making widows and orphans out of the families of our people.  
  
  
  
The temptation to do it is so strong I can almost taste it, but there are Rules and if I wish to go on being considered one of the Good Guys, I must obey them.  My gun remains cold in its holster, and my gut roils with hatred.  
  
Jones' voice in the background becomes tense.  I listen.  We're in trouble.  
  
 "Sir," she says.  
  
 "Yes," I tell her.  I consider:  if we're about to be overrun by the Viper's backup retrieval squad, that counts as extenuating circumstances and I can legally shoot our prisoner.  The only thing is, I have to be absolutely sure that we're about to be overrun, and by then, it may be too late.  
  
My palm unit sounds with a G-Force priority signal.  
  
 "Go ahead," I say.  
  
_"Chief,"_ it's Mark. _"What's your position?"_ Several wisecracks spring to mind, and I push them aside.  
  
 "We're in my office," I tell him.  "We have the Viper secured.  Zark has located one team of four and has them trapped in the south west fire escape stairwell.  There's a second squad in elevator shaft nine, they're on the move."  
  
 " _That's not a lot to go on, Chief_ ," Mark says.  
  
 I have to agree with that.   
  
  


* * *

  
**G-Force Commander Mark Hawking - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 2048 hours**  
  
Princess and I initiate our transmute sequences as the motorcycle rolls down the driveway to the parking lot under the ISO Tower.  The Chief's in a tight spot up in his office and we don't know where all the hostiles are.  
  
The Galacticycle secured, we run into the basement lobby.  There's no guard on duty.  That can't be good.  
  
The elevator doors stand open, the cars ready and waiting.  I note the position of shaft nine. The car is open and empty.  A sign proclaims that this elevator services levels sixty through one hundred.  We step inside and look up at the manhole in the ceiling:  it's open.  I punch the button for the ninety ninth floor, one level down from the Chief's office.  
  
Nothing happens.  
  
 "Zark, ears on," I say into my communicator.  
  
 " _Ears on, Commander_ ," Zark says.  
  
 "What's with the elevators in the ISO Tower?" I demand.  
  
There's a pause, measured by a heartbeat.  
  
 " _It appears someone is overriding my control of the building management system,"_ Zark reports _.  "I think they're trying to unlock the doors to the fire escape!  I don't think they'll have much luck.  That part of the system is controlled by Security, and they're hacking into Fire Control.  Unfortunately, it has the side effect of grounding the elevators_."  
  
I find myself staring at the opening in the ceiling of the elevator car.  "The Chief said shaft nine had an infestation of Zoltar's happiness boys," I recall.  "Where are they, Zark?"  
  
  _"They're no longer in the elevator shaft,"_ Zark tells me.   _"They ascended the cables and exited at level sixty, then they somehow knocked out the surveillance scanners on that floor and I'm unable to pinpoint their location."_  
  
  
 "Understood.  Out."  I jump up to grab the lip of the manhole, then pull myself through.  The elevator shaft is dark and it's long way to the top.  I crouch and extend a hand to Princess.  "Let's move," I prompt.  
  
It's going to be a killer ascent:  we leap, brace and take turns swinging each other upward, straining backs, hauling on shoulders.  Our cerebonics kick in and keep our body chemistry from falling back into anaerobic respiration, supporting muscles pushed beyond normal endurance, but I can feel the tightness in my limbs and back and I know I'm going to be sore tomorrow.  
  
Assuming there is a tomorrow.  
  
  


* * *

  
**Chief of Galaxy Security David Anderson - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 2050 hours**  
  
 "Someone's accessing the Fire Control Systems," Jones announces.  "Zark?"  
  
 " _I'm already on it, Major,"_ Zark says, " _I'm accessing Fire Control and tracing the activity back... Not now, 1-Rover-1_."  An electronic _Nyap!_ echoes out of the comm speaker.  " _Oh, my,"_ sighs the robot, _"I'm going to need a long vacation after this!_ "  
  
Jones and Falcone exchange incredulous glances.  
  
 "Don't ask," I warn them.  
  
Falcone shakes his head and resumes watching the lobby through the door, which he holds wedged open by half a hand's breadth using the toe of one boot.  Like Jones, he's one of the "invisible" people.  I find myself wondering if he has a wife and a family, and how they cope with the pressures of his job.  He's a youngish man, not much older than my kids, maybe in his mid twenties, with olive skin, a few old acne scars from his teens, and close cropped dark hair.  He wears a gold earring.  He's ready to die to protect me, and I haven't even bothered to find out his first name.  
  
I hear a low chuckle behind me:  our snake is laughing.  
  
I'd like to wipe the smile off her face, so much so that I don't trust myself not to cross the line.  Instead, I motion to Jones.  
  
 "Shut her up," I order.  Jones gives me a look that takes my measure, then she nods and walks over to the prisoner.  
  
 "You will die tonight," the Viper tells her with evident pleasure.  
  
 "Fortune telling, is it?" Jones parries coldly.  She grabs the Viper's uniform jacket, slashes at the lining with a tiny pocket knife and rips out a length of fabric in one savage motion.  "Borrow your tie, sir?" she asks me, as though inquiring after the weather.  
  
I undo the half-Windsor and hand the requested article over gladly.  Jones stuffs the jacket lining into the Viper's mouth, narrowly missing getting her fingers bitten, and uses my tie to complete the gag.  I don't think I'll ask for it back.  
  
 "Nice work, Al," I say.  For the briefest of instants, Jones looks at me in utter surprise, as though I've just thrown cold water in her face.  I don't think I've ever used her first name before.  
  
 "Sir," she acknowledges.  
  
 " _Chief Anderson!_ " 7-Zark-7's voice is bubbling over with enthusiasm.  " _I've located the computer being used to hack into the building systems!  It's the terminal in the Emergency Control Room!_ "   
  
 "Initiate lock down," I tell the robot.  "Regain control, isolate the terminal and activate the emergency security system."  
  
 " _Would you like visual feed?_ " Zark offers.  
  
Come to think of it, I would.  
  
We watch as the scanner zooms in on the figure of a uniformed Security officer, gesturing at the crashing computer terminal. There's an armed goon in a Spectran uniform standing behind him with a rifle.  
  
Jones stares, seemingly baffled, at the screen.  "Digby...  My card!" she exclaims, inexplicably.  
 "Care to share?" I ask her.  
  
 "Digby was on lobby duty this afternoon."  Her brow knits and one hand absently touches the ID card on her lapel. "My ID wasn't registering," she recalls, and looks up at me, realisation dawning on her face.  "He reprogrammed my card when I wasn't able to access the main entrance.  He must have used the manual override at the main desk to make it look as though my card was faulty, and taken a copy.   That's how the Viper got in here!  Jack said she usually has someone on the inside.  Digby must be the mole, sir."  
  
 "Darrell Digby?" Falcone echoes from his post by the door.  "From Site? You gotta be kiddin', boss."  
  
 "You should know by now that I don't _kid_ ," Jones says icily.  
  
 "Major," Falcone addresses his superior with the air of a man at the end of his rope.  "We're up to our necks in shit.  We could die tonight like the Spook bitch says.  Do you think that maybe, just maybe, you could lighten up a little, already?"  
  
Jones eyeballs Falcone until he breaks the contact.  "Not really, no," she says.  
  
 "Who exactly is Digby?" I ask, breaking the tension.  
  
 "He's a Sergeant with Site Security," Jones recounts.  "He knows how to access every system in the building... So why is he in fire control when he really needs to be in building security?"  
  
 "Because he's double crossed them," I conclude, staring at the monitor.  The Spectran is gesturing aggressively, while Digby stands and looks helpless, trying to explain that he's lost control of the building systems.  Suddenly, Digby lunges at the Spectran, and they struggle over the rifle.  They lurch back and forth, each one trying to force his opponent to overbalance.  "Zark," I call up the robot at Nerve Center, "is there anything we can do?"  
  
 " _I'm afraid I've done all I can, Chief_ ," Zark says ruefully.  " _Oh, I can barely watch!_ "  
  
Digby gets a foot in behind the Spectran's ankle and they both go down.  There's a struggle. I can't see clearly what's happening, then Digby stands up, the rifle in his hands.  Before I can open a channel to order him to hold, he fires a single shot.  The man in green jerks, twitches, and is still.  
  
 "Damn," I whisper.   "Zark," I call.  
  
 " _Yes, Chief?_ "  
  
 "Contact Digby.  Establish direct communications between him and a member of the CED critical incident debriefing team ASAP.  I don't want him doing anything rash."  
  
 " _Big ten, Chief_."  
  
  


* * *

  
**G-Force Commander Mark Hawking - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 2053 hours**  
  
"Princess!  Hold your position!" I shout.  
  
I can hear the elevator motors powering up, and I see the cables start to move.  The car below is ascending, and doing so at speed. The Fire Control systems must be back on line.  
  
There are no main doors this far down in the building in this shaft.  We'd have to find an emergency hatch, or maybe Princess could try blasting a hole in the wall using her yo-yo bombs, or... maybe we can turn this to our advantage.  
  
There's no time for a frank and enlightened discussion. It's my call. Princess is about eight feet below me. I extend a hand and she springs into the air, cape wings unfurling, to alight next to me, perching on the internal structures of the shaft.  
  
"Ready to hop a lift?" I ask Princess.  
  
"Ready as I'll ever be," she tells me, watching the car rising up through the shaft.  
  
"On three," I tell her, watching the top of the elevator getting closer and closer.  I take a deep breath and try to judge the speed of the approaching juggernaut. "One... Two... THREE!"  We leap, as high and as hard as we can.  The elevator catches us from below like a ton of bricks but we recoil and do our best to absorb the shock.  The impact stings the soles of my feet through my boots.  "You okay?" I ask Princess.  
  
"Never better," she assures me.  Her voice shakes only slightly.  
  
Now we're hurtling up the inside of the tower at a velocity faster than anything we could have managed under our own steam.  
  
I flatten myself against the top of the elevator and peer inside:  it's empty.  "Let's go, Princess," I say and drop down into the car. She follows me.  "Be ready to move," I tell her.  
  
  
  
" _Skipper_ ," Jason's voice sounds over my wrist communicator.  " _I'm in the basement. Where are you?_ "  
  
"Going up, Jason," I tell him.  "Zark, any sign of that assault team?"  
  
" _Negative, Commander_ ," the robot says, _"but I'm detecting a malfunction in the scanners in one of the main mechanical risers_.   _They could be climbing up that way."_  
  
" _Where are Security when we need them?_ " Jason asks.  
  
" _Level two, equipment duct two one nine_ ," Zark advises.  Now, that's news!  I open my mouth to ask Zark why he didn't tell us this before, and it occurs to me that he'll only say, 'You didn't ask, Commander.'  There's not much point in ticking off a machine.  
  
" _You want me to go get 'em?_ " Jason offers.  
  
I consider:  it will mean a delay, but maybe we can use the extra backup.  "Do it, Jason," I decide.  
  
" _Big ten_ ," he replies.  
  
" _Commander_ ," Zark chimes in, " _I'm unable to pinpoint the location of the assault team.   They're somehow evading my scanners!_ "  
  
Great.  Just great.  
  
"Okay, Zark.  Keep looking," I say.  I glance at Princess, whose expression is one of concern.  
  
"Now what?" she asks.  
  
"We have two choices," I say.  "We can head up to the top floor or we can go hunting."  
  
"We could split up and do both," she suggests.  
  
"That's not an option," I say.  "The last thing we need is for one of us to be neutralised or taken hostage.  We back each other up."  
  
"What's that noise?" Princess asks. I tilt my head and listen. It sounds like...  
  
"Gunfire?" I raise my wrist. "Chief? Are you okay?"  
  
" _So far, so good_ ," comes the reply.  
  
"We're hearing shots, down here," I say. "What's your status?"  
  
" _We're fine._ _I'd say that what you're hearing is probably the trapped assault team trying to blast their way clear of the south west fire escape,_ " he suggests.  
  
"We're on our way up to you, now," I tell him. Princess follows me back into the elevator and I hit the button for the top floor. The ride seems to take an eternity, but finally, the doors slide open and we both check the lobby. It's clear, and we hurry down the corridor toward the Chief's office.  
  
A gun-wielding security officer opens the door for us and waves us inside. He resumes his position once we're in.  
  
The Chief and Jones are studying computer readouts behind the desk. The Chief has his shirt collar open. "Glad you could make it," he says. "Where are the others?"  
  
"Jason's freeing the security staff," I recount. "Keyop and Tiny are bringing the _Phoenix_." I turn my attention to the woman trussed up in one of the conference chairs. She has what looks like an entire roll of cello tape around her left wrist in a glossy, adhesive mess. "This is the Viper?" I assume.  
  
"She's certainly not going anywhere," Princess observes. "Chief, is that your tie?"  
  
"It's a casualty of war," the Chief explains solemnly.  
  
"Sirs!" the security officer calls, and Jones is at his side, peering out into the lobby. I join them, and the security officer points at the ceiling. I can see the panels vibrating and there are low thudding sounds.  
  
"They're in the ceiling cavity!" I exclaim.  
  
Suddenly the room is alive with activity. The two security officers are herding the Chief away from the apparent danger, weapons at the ready.  
  
Princess and I run out into the lobby.  Princess unslings her yo-yo and tosses it upward.  
  
We dive into the kitchen as the yo-yo bomb detonates. The concussion in this confined space doesn't blow the armoured windows, it makes my ears pop and everything rattles as the air fills with thick, blinding smoke.  
  
The lobby where Gunny keeps his scrupulously tidy work station is littered with broken ceiling panels, dirt, rat droppings and four filthy Spectran goons in various stages of disrepair. One of them is conscious: my sonic boomerang takes care of that.  
  
" _Mark?_ " I hear Jason calling on the communicator.  
  
"We're fine, Jason," I assure him.  
  
" _Great,_ " he says. " _I'm heading up in the elevator with a little surprise package._ "  
  
My communicator activates again.  
  
" _Cavalry's here!_ " Tiny's voice announces.  " _We're holding position in stationary hover above the roof.  Standing by for orders, Commander._ "  
  
 "Big ten on that, Tiny," I reply.  
  
The elevator bell rings and the doors slide open to reveal Jason with three uniformed security officers guarding four handcuffed goons. "Found 'em busting out of the fire escape," he says. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire, huh, guys?" The Spectrans don't appear to appreciate Jason's humour.  
  
The gang's all here.


	6. 2100 - 2400

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when everything was going so well...

**Chief of Galaxy Security David Anderson - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 2109 hours**  
  
  
Falcone lets off an exuberant, "Yee-HAW!" and Jones frowns, clearly unimpressed.  She takes up position at the door and Falcone steps out into the lobby.  "All clear, boss!" Falcone calls back.  Jones moves aside just enough for me to get a view of Gunny's office area, swamped in wreckage, dirt from the ceiling cavity, clouds of somewhat noisome dust, several sachets of rat poison and some very much the worse for wear men in Spectran drabs.   
  
More importantly, Mark, Princess and Jason are all right, as are the three security officers with them.  The four Spectrans still standing stare numbly at the destruction.   
  
 "Nice work," I tell Mark, nodding at Princess and Jason. "Let's get the Viper aboard the _Phoenix_ and locate that mobile command post."   
  
I see a look of horror cross Mark's face and I turn to see light flooding through the windows, turning the glass to actinic fire.  The beam moves and we follow it, rushing back into my office to see a small jet copter hovering outside. It begins to ascend.  
  
 "Tiny!" Mark shouts into his wrist comm. "Bogey coming up the north side of the building!  Evasive action, _now!"_  
  
Dimly, through the soundproofed building, I hear the _Phoenix_ 's engines scream, then there is a dull _thud!_   
  
 " _Mark! They hit our starboard main engine_!" Tiny cries over the communicator. " _Initiating emergency procedures!_ "   
  
 The jet copter is back. I draw my weapon and start toward the Viper but Jones grabs my arm, catching me off balance, pulling me back from the window. Out of the corner of my eye I see one of the _Phoenix_ 's wing pods swinging into view.   
  
 "We can't let her escape!" I shout. I wrench free of Jones and fire my sidearm at the prisoner.   
  
  
A number of things happen all at once:  even as I shoot, the jet copter answers with fire of its own.  I can hear it, but I can't see it because something has me, the room tilts and I've got carpet in my face.  
  
  
Jones has wrestled me to the ground and it sounds as though all hell has broken loose in the room:  clattering, banging, smashing, detonating noises assault my ears.  A wave of gritty, freezing air washes over me and raises gooseflesh on the back of my neck.   
  
The noise subsides.  I shake off Jones' restraining arm and look up through smoke, dust and mist.   
  
The copter's engines scream and fade.   
  
I get to my feet to see the gaping hole in the window and an empty space where the Viper and her chair were a few moments ago. There are granulated fragments of shattered glass and spatters of what looks like blood on the carpet.   
  
Around me, the others are getting up. The _Phoenix_ lurches into position outside the building, billowing smoke, wobbling slightly under asymmetric thrust.   
  
"Are you all right, sir?" Jones asks me. I round on her to snarl that she stopped me from terminating the Viper, and my angry words die in my throat as I catch sight of the smoking holes in the wall at head and shoulder height, right behind where I was standing when the jet copter opened fire.   
  
"Yes, Major, thank you," I manage to say.   
  
"Zark," Mark activates his communicator. "Are you tracking that bogey?"   
  
" _Sorry, Commander_ ," Zark's voice is apologetic. " _It headed out to sea and disappeared off my scanners. I'm trying to reacquire it, but I'm not having much success._ "   
  
"We'd better start cleaning up this mess," I say wearily.   
  
"No," Mark says. " _We'll_ start cleaning up this mess. _You're_ going home and getting some rest, or I'll have Dr Halloran order you home.  You should be safe enough," he insists. "The Viper won't be back tonight, if she survived at all."   
  
"She probably did," Falcone remarks. "Look at the height of the bullet holes. All well above the height of someone sitting in a chair, like she was. Whoever that guy was in the copter, he's a darned good shot."   
  
"Let's hope she was unlucky," Jones says. She steers me away from the wreckage of my office.  
  
  
The elevator door opens and Lieutenant Patrick stands dumbfounded in the ruin of the lobby, a plastic bag with Chinese takeout in one hand.  
  
 "I leave you guys alone for twenty minutes," she says, "and this is what happens?"  
  
 "We'll be having a little chat about that, later, Lieutenant," Jones promises darkly.  "In the meantime, since you seem to be on catering duties, why don't you run along to the kitchen and make the Chief a cup of coffee?" she suggests.  With one final glare at the luckless junior officer, she escorts me to the executive conference room.  I sit down and I'm suddenly weary to my very bones.  There's a draught coming in through the door and I shiver.  A strange sense of unreality washes over me as Jones slips out of her dusty overcoat and drapes it over my shoulders.  It's warm, but it's way too small, so she turns it at right angles.  "Why don't I go and find your coat, sir?" Jones decides, and leaves me in the cold, echoing room.  
  
  
    
  


* * *

  
**Spectran Operative Code Name "Viper" - Undisclosed Location, Planet Earth:  January 13, 2135 hours**  
  
 "Get me out of this!" I snarl, struggling helplessly against the restraints that hold me in this undignified position. The chair refuses to break, but instead moves with me, and I have nothing against which to brace myself.   
  
 "Soon!" Hogat's voice is tight with distress.  "At this low altitude, I have to concentrate on flying!"   
  
I stop struggling and take deep gulps of cold salty air.  I am lying on one side in this ridiculous piece of office furniture, still handcuffed and taped to the arms and legs of the chair where the Earth bitch secured me.  It is cold and dark, and I can smell the ocean.  My left arm is damaged, and I can feel sticky, congealing blood soaking my sleeve.  "Where are we?" I ask.   
  
 "With any luck," Hogat says, "we are below the Earth radar.  I will head back toward the coast soon."   
  
 "Curse them," I snarl.  How did it all go wrong?   
  
 "You realise we are the only ones left, you and I," Hogat says, and he sounds as though he is on the verge of tears.  "All the others were either killed or taken prisoner.  I do not know what has happened to them!  How will I face my mother, now, not even knowing whether Gano is alive or dead?"   
  
 "Your brother knew the risks, Hogat," I say flatly.  "We all know the risks.  We will find out, as soon as we can," I promise.  "We will discover what happened, and if Gano and the others still live, we will find them and bring them home.  I swear to you.  And if they have joined the ancestors, I will pay your family and theirs full blood price.  On my honour."   
  
Hogat does not reply, but I hear him sniffle, and I gather he is weeping.   
  
I am silent.  I am too angry to weep.  I can only rage and plot revenge, here, on the floor of our escape craft, handcuffed and taped to a chair, bloodied, humiliated and furious.   
  

* * *

  
**Chief of Galaxy Security David Anderson - ISO Tower, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 2156 hours**  
  
By the time Jack Lewindowsky's people have taken the prisoners away for interrogation, and once debriefing and transportation have all been arranged, it's close to ten o'clock.  Jones escorts me to the limousine and gets in front with the driver, leaving me alone with this odd lack of thoughts.   
  
The numbness is still there, threatening to come back and drop me back in a grey hole.  I was able to gather my wits for long enough to deal with Jack and convince Kate Halloran not to take a chopper down here and administer a sedative.  Now the crisis has subsided, I have nothing on which to focus.   
  
The journey passes in a series of tiny details: the stitching on the limousine upholstery; a scratch on the inside door handle; a worn patch on the carpet. My watch is reading 2225 as the car pulls into the driveway of the house I nominally call home, and we're met by Captain Alban at the gate.   
  
She leans down and peers in the front window of the limousine, speaks briefly with Jones, and salutes in my general direction as the limo eases up the driveway.   
  
The vehicle stops and Jones opens the door.  She is as dusty and dishevelled as I am.  "Why don't you go home, Al?" I suggest.   
  
 "Once we're finished up, sir, I intend to," she says.  "Captain Alban reports all clear in the house, perimeter sweep negative. We've got Maxwell, Nicholls and Greene on grounds."   
  
I walk in and pause in the hall.  I thought the house seemed empty this morning.  It seems even more so, now.  I take off my jacket as I climb the stairs, feeling every step as though it were Everest.   
  
The image that stares back at me out of the bathroom mirror is not pleasing.  I wash my face and try to comb most of the dust out of my hair.  In a little while, I plan on taking a long, hot shower and then I'll fall into bed.  I'm not yet ready to sleep, however.  I need to wind down.  A walk would do me a world of good but my chances of getting out of the house without at least one security officer going ballistic on me are nonexistent.   
  
The kitchen is hollow and empty.  There's a tray with a covered dish on the counter. Steam curls up from the spout of the kettle. Everything has been prepared for me. I can take my supper and retreat to my study in solitude. In emptiness.  I punch in the code to the outer door and step out on to the porch.    
  
  
Lieutenant Maxwell, stationed by the door, gives me a quizzical look.  "Everything okay, sir?"   
  
 "Define okay," I parry, but I don't wait around for a response.  
  
  
The guest house that my security staff use as their base of operations is lit up.  I walk across the government funded lawn and key the code for the back door.    
  
 Alban and Jones are seated at the kitchen table with paperwork, palm units, and a large teapot.  Jones is mantling over a large steaming cup of tea.  She is on her feet almost instantly, her eyes shadowed with concern as well as an almost overwhelming weariness. "Sir?" she asks.  There are a hundred questions in the word.  I don't feel like answering any of them.   
  
 "If it won't cramp your style," I hear myself stay, "do you mind if I join you?"   
  
 "Of course not."  She pours me a cup of green tea.   
  
The security officers discuss the week's roster while I sip at the tea.  The unfortunate Bairstow (who spent most of the evening locked in a mech duct) has been given a week off, and cover is being organised.  Alban is trying to convince Jones to take a few days.  Jones argues, but eventually she agrees to take tomorrow off and possibly the day after.   
  
 "I'll go upload this," Alban says, and gets up to take the paperwork to the computer terminal.   
  
Jones is studying me over the rim of her teacup.   
  
 "You look like I feel," I tell her.   
  
She sighs, evidently too weary even for a withering look.  "I take it that's not a compliment."  
  
  
 "Not particularly," I say.   
  
 "Sir," she says, "I'm sorry I spoiled your shot."   
  
I take a sip of the hot, fragrant tea while I consider my response.   
  
 "You can only call it as you see it, Major," I say, trying not to sound grudging.  "Your job is to protect me, but every now and then, maybe you could trust me."   
  
For a long moment, she simply looks at me, and when she speaks, she is carefully neutral.  "I see," she says.   
  
 "Do you?" I challenge.   
  
Jones puts her cup down.   
  
 "Do you know what kept you alive tonight, sir?" she asks me.  "It was luck.  Dumb bloody luck."   
  
I consider this for a moment.  The inescapable truth forms an icy lump in my stomach.  "I guess it was," I concede.    
  
 "Yes, sir."   
  
I look at her, tired, with dust in her hair and on her clothes, a smudge of what might be gunpowder on the end of her nose, and say, "Al, you've been up since heaven-knows-when this morning.  We just got through tackling an assassin and came close to being blown to smithereens.  In the immortal words of Lieutenant Falcone, do you think that maybe, just maybe, you could lighten up a little, already?"   
  
Her mouth twitches, but she catches herself before she actually laughs.   
  
 "Is that an order, sir?" she inquires.   
  
 "Yes," I decide.   
  
 "I don't think I'll be terribly good at it, sir."   
  
 "Give it your best shot."   
  
 "Yes, sir."  She tops up both our cups from the pot on the table.  We drink in silence for a moment.  It's good tea.  "You should get some rest," she tells me.   
  
 "I'd rest easier if I knew the Viper was dead or captured," I say.  "Preferably both."  Jones frowns at me, an unspoken question in her expression.  "I've lost too many friends and colleagues to assassins," I tell her.  "Spectra's weapons of choice are terrorism, extortion and assassination.  It's low, it's cowardly..." I come to a realisation. "I suppose I felt I could somehow make a difference if I could stop the Viper once and for all. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense, if I look at it logically. For every assassin we take out, another two pop up in their places, like some kind of unholy hydra..." I let my voice trail off, aware that I'm rambling. This isn't like me.  I must be extremely tired. Or in shock. Or something.   
  
My thoughts keep tumbling through my mind, each one pushing and shoving and jostling.  I recognise that my hatred of the Viper is not a personal hatred -- how could it be?  I've exchanged maybe two sentences with her.  It's a collective indignation, a desire for revenge that I've projected onto this one individual.   
  
And I nearly let it kill me.   
  
 "It's over, now, sir," Jones is saying. "The Viper failed. She's lost her support crew and with any luck, she stopped a few bullets. You should go and get some sleep."   
  
 "Yes," I agree. "I suppose I..."   
  
If I were the Viper, would I crawl away to lick my wounds, or would I strike while my target thought it was safe, before new security measures could be brought to bear, making a successful hit damned near impossible?   
  
 "We got company," Captain Alban announces. "Looks like G-Force. Greene says their ID checks out and Jason's snarling at him."   
  
 "That sounds like Jason," I remark. "Luck..." I taste the word. "Dumb bloody luck."   
  
 "Sir?" Jones gives me a look that asks if I'm losing my mind.   
  
 "We can still catch ourselves a Viper," I tell her.   
    
    
  


* * *

  
**G-Force Commander Mark Hawking - Security Chief's Residence, Center City, Planet Earth:  January 13, 2305 hours**  
  
Princess offers to make hot chocolate but I opt for tea. It took some talking to convince the Chief he shouldn't volunteer to be bait for a Viper trap, but in the end, he capitulated.   
  
I sip at the hot drink and close my eyes for a minute. I'm tired, but if I have to transmute again I know my cerebonics will keep me going with a squirt of endorphins to keep me wide awake. Keep it up for long enough and my brain will fry, but so far, so good. We can, in theory, keep going without sleep for up to seventy two hours or so without suffering degradation in performance, but augmentation comes at a price: the further past our usual limits we're pushed, the worse the purge afterward.   
  
For the most part, our cerebonics work to prevent the build up of toxins when we perform at levels beyond what would normally be expected of a human being -- the leaps, the landings, the throws, strikes and lifts are supported by both the implants and the uniforms. It's when we have to stay awake for long periods or assign resources for accelerated healing while we're still working that toxins are generated. There's only so much in the way of endorphin a human body -- even a cerebonically augmented one -- can take before we start feeling like we've been hit by a truck.   
  
If I find my bed within the next six hours or so, I'll sleep like a log for maybe ten hours, and be bright eyed and bushy tailed when I wake up. I'll need to drink plenty of water and pee like a horse but I'll basically be okay. If I don't get to sleep for another twelve hours, I'll feel tired and grouchy post-dreamland. Another twelve hours on top of that and I'll wake up with a headache. Another twelve and I'll feel hung over. Keep me going without any sleep for seventy two hours and I'll feel like I've got the 'flu. Try it for a week and I'll need dialysis.   
  
I sure would like to get some sleep soon.   
  
The Chief, on the other hand, is not cerebonically augmented. He's been up since early this morning, he's still not a hundred percent fit, and he's slipping. It was this last that convinced him not to take an active part in the final phase of our Viper-trapping operation. I'm glad he's opted out.   
  
It's time to go. I push my chair back and stand up.   
  
 "Let's move," I say.   
  
As we file out onto the front porch, I feel vulnerable, and I shiver despite the loan of one of the Security uniform jackets. The temperature has dropped sharply and the air bites at my face. Anyone watching from across the street or from cover within the grounds (assuming they could slip past the alarm system, but the Viper has a reputation for doing just that) would see the porchlight glinting off the auburn hair of the tall man muffled in the overcoat and scarf who walks next to me.  Out here, he's an easy target.   
  
I hustle my charge into the armoured vehicle and slip into the driver's seat. The glass partition is down, making it easy for us to talk. I start the engine and to turn the car around. From the porch, Princess and Keyop wave goodbye.   
  
The gate swings open and we're on our way to Seahorse Base.   
  
There are a few cars on the road, but not many out here in this district. We'll run into heavier traffic as we get closer to the terminal. Some of the big houses along the street are blazing with light and have cars lined up along their driveways -- late night _soirees_ , I suppose, the kind of thing I hate. Rich people just don't seem to know how to have fun. Give me my family, my rented shack and my plane any day!   
  
I've learned over the last few months just what is important to me, and I'm determined not to forget it. It's a beautiful winter's night, with a clear sky. Every star looks like it's been cleaned and polished up just for the occasion. I try to see the sky, and not the individual stars, to not think about how many of those stars harbour enemies, or how many shelter friends. It's little things, I reflect, like starlit nights and Christmas trees and watching Princess drink a milkshake. Little things make all the difference.   
  
We're coming up on a quiet stretch of coastal road and I address my communicator. "Hey, Zark, how am I doing?"   
  
Silence.   
  
 "Zark?"   
  
 " _Nyaap!_ " says my communicator.   
  
What the...? "One Rover One?"   
  
 " _Nyaaap! Nyap!_ "   
  
Of all the times to be taking an oil shower.   
  
I take a deep breath with the intention of yelling at Zark to get his metal butt over to the communicator in the hope that he might hear it, or that Rover might run and fetch him, when my passenger taps my shoulder and points. There!  A glint of moonlight on fuselage. There's an aircraft moving in the night sky: a jet copter.   
  
 "Princess," I call into the communicator, "scramble!  Bogey closing in at two o'clock!  Scramble!"   
  
 " _I'm on my_ _way!_ " she says. In the background, I can hear the roar of her bike's engine.   
  
It would take a small rocket to penetrate the armour on this limousine. It's made of a similar alloy to the hull on the _Phoenix_. ISO owns a fleet of these cars for ferrying VIPs around. They're as expensive as all get-out but since they protect the precious nether regions of the same politicians who sit on the budget committees, there were never any real objections to the purchase.   
  
Our tyres, however, are still tyres.   
  
The jet copter gets bigger and bigger in the sky. My hands flex against the steering wheel, sweaty despite my confidence in ISO engineering.   
  
And what if they actually _have_ a small rocket on board? Or even a medium sized rocket? I really don't want to think about that because I know full well that we'd be toast.   
  
My question is about to be answered as I'm momentarily blinded by the jet copter's spotlight. Instead of braking, I accelerate, trusting that I can remember how the road curves slightly to the left.   
  
My eyes are watering but I can just make out the reflective road markers as we move out of the beam, which swings around again, trying to match our increased speed. The limo wobbles slightly and so do I as my passenger scrambles over the seat to join me in front. I don't look at him but keep my eyes on the road and concentrate on controlling the vehicle.   
  
The jet copter hits us again with the spotlight and there's an ear popping WHUMP! that lifts the car clean off the road.   
  
 "Hang on!" I yell as we hit the ground with a reverberating crash and bounce, fishtailing across the road. The car is tilting down and to the right, the engine has stopped, all the red alarm lights are illuminated on the dash, one of our headlamps is out and there's steam billowing out from under the hood.  I can barely turn the steering wheel: our attacker must have a grenade launcher, and they've blown the right hand front tyre and made mincemeat of our engine.  Only that expensive armour plating has saved us from being mincemeat, too. Our momentum swings us in a wild arc and we come to a jolting stop on the wrong side of the road.   
  
I let out the breath I was holding.   
  
There's a _thump!_ on the roof of the limo.   
  
 "That's our cue!" I declare, and we both dive out of our respective doors. "Transmute!"   
  
As I roll and spring to my feet, I see the Chief's second-best overcoat shredding away in a blaze of multicoloured light as Jason confronts the woman standing atop the limousine. I can't see the expression on her face as she realises her 'target' is actually G-2, but I wish I could.  I hear Jason chuckle.  "You should've let me drive, skipper."  
  
  
I leap as hard as I can, catching the Viper in the back and tumbling over the top of the car to hit the tarmac. My teeth click and I hear her pained exclamation as the air is knocked out of her.   
  
Amazingly, she recovers almost instantly.  She writhes and kicks and twists away from me like a dancer. "Die, Earth scum!" she screams. I hear the engine of the jet copter screaming as the pilot closes in and I dive again at the Viper, hoping that the pilot won't dare shoot at us if it means he'll kill her.   
  
Unless he decides to cut Spectra's losses and deny us a live prisoner; or trust to his apparently excellent marksmanship and take the risk.   
  
I hear the clunk and click of the copter's gatling gun.   
  
Uh-oh.   
  
There's an impact from one side as Jason tackles both me and the Viper, propelling all three of us behind the car as the copter pilot opens fire. The limo rocks and pings as the big shells strike home. My prisoner is still fighting me and I manage to get a hand around her throat, pinning her to the ground. Her bloodied face contorts, strings of spittle trailing from her mouth as she tries to kick me, and I fend the blows with my other arm. Incoherent snarls dribble from her lips, presumably curses of some kind.   
  
 " _Calling G-Force!_ " Zark's voice sounds over my communicator. " _Come in, G-Force!_ "   
  
Oh, for crying out loud.   
  
Jason has drawn his gun and is edging towards the rear of the limousine. Any second now, the copter will manoeuvre over the top of the car and unless I can think of something right now, we're finished.   
  
 "ATTENTION!" says an amplified voice from above us. "RELEASE THE PRISONER AND SURRENDER! OBEY, AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED."   
  
 "Oh, sure," I mutter. But at least this means the Viper is still valuable.   
  
Maybe. My gut tells me I have very few options left. My communicator calls querulously and I block out the sound.   
  
 "COME OUT!" demands the voice from the copter.  
  
  
Jason's gun replies, a series of short, sharp retorts that shatter the spotlight in a shower of sparks. The copter rocks as its pilot reacts. Jason and I grab our prisoner, taking an arm each, and leap long and low for the road verge, landing in an untidy heap in the undergrowth.   
  
At least now we have some cover.   
  
 "Princess, where are you?" I demand into my wrist unit.   
  
The Viper chooses this moment to throw herself backward, breaking my grip. She kicks high, knocking Jason's arm aside, rolls and leaps to her feet. We both throw ourselves after her but she springs high and somersaults over our heads.   
  
 "Cyborg!" Jason spits the word, even as he starts to run after her.   
  
The Viper breaks out of the undergrowth and sprints up onto the road with both of us in pursuit.   
  
The gatling gun on the jet copter depresses towards us.   
  
I am flung backward by the blast wave as the copter explodes in a terrible blossom of flame.   
  
Time stops.   
  
It's as though everything happens in increments.   
  
The fireball expands, hanging in mid-air.   
  
A fragment of debris glances off my helmet but doesn't do any damage.   
  
Jason is calling out to me. I roll onto my belly like a fish, flopping over and turning so that I can see the awful spectacle fifteen feet up.   
  
The Viper is down in a low crouch on the road, illuminated by the fire above, one arm flung upward to protect her face.  
  
  
The jet copter, blazing, begins to fall.   
  
My heart seems to leap into my throat.   
  
I hear the Viper scream, a high, thin shriek of terror, agonisingly human. The sound slices into me.   
  
I can't look away.   
  
The burning wreckage of the jet copter hits the ground.   
  
The Viper is engulfed in flame.   
  
My vision is obscured by a large tyre as the Galacticycle rolls to a stop in front of me, reeking of rocket exhaust. A white booted foot touches the earth and Princess is helping me up. I lean against the vehicle, still staring at the burning copter.   
  
 "Mark, are you all right?" Princess asks.   
  
 "I think so," I tell her. "A couple bruises, maybe."   
  
 " _Center Neptune, calling G-Force, please respond_ ," Zark pleads.   
  
I raise my wrist to face height.   
  
 "Zark," I say, "SHUT UP!"   
  
 "That was overdue," Jason says wryly.  "Nice shooting, by the way, Princess."  He's on his feet, watching the conflagration. He stalks over to the limousine, opens the driver's side door and grabs the fire extinguisher.   
  
Princess and I follow and I'm aware of Jason's car easing to a stop on the road a good distance back from the burning wreckage of the jet copter. A black van pulls up next to it and disgorges a handful of security officers.  Keyop bounces out of the front passenger seat of Jason's car, Tiny hurries out of the back, and the Chief takes his time shutting down the engine and exiting the driver's side. Keyop starts to run toward us, but Tiny catches his arm and holds him back.   
  
Jason tests the extinguisher and stands side on to a section of burning debris, taking aim and squeezing the levers so that the dry chemical fountains over the top of the fire.   
  
I can make out a human shape, covered in beige grit.   
  
She turns her seared and hairless head towards us.  That she could still be alive makes my stomach twist and roil with horror. There is an all too real stench of burned flesh and hair.   
  
A clawed metal hand gestures weakly.   
  
 "I suppose," she rasps, "you think you've won." The remains of her torn and ravaged mouth turn upward in a smile and I almost vomit.   
  
 "Bomb!" Jason exclaims, and we spring backward for the cover of the limousine as the Viper's chest explodes.   
  
There are thuds, some soft and wet, some hard and dry, and I swallow bile. Princess' face has gone ashen. Jason is taking slow, deep breaths. I hope Keyop didn't see that.   
  
I get up and try to ignore the blood on my uniform. The Chief is walking toward us, his face impassive. I steel myself and walk forward to meet him at what's left of his would-be assassin.   
  
 "Some venomous snakes have to be killed, I guess," I say.   
  
He gazes wordlessly at the burned and bloodied mixture of shattered flesh and metal for a long moment before he can bring himself to speak.  "She would have been human, once," he says eventually, his expression a grimace of disgust.   
  
 "Why does Spectra do this?" I wonder, not for the first time.   
  
 "In a way," he says, "I'm glad I don't have the answer."  He shakes his head and looks sadly around at the carnage.  "What a stupid, senseless waste," he says.   
  
A high speed helicopter in ISO livery clatters into view, having been on standby at the shuttle terminal since before we left the house.  It touches down on the road in a blast of grit and noise, and uniformed security staff seem to pour out of it.  Jack Lewindowsky saunters after them and walks over to us as the chopper powers down and the cleanup squad starts isolating the scene.   
  
 "What a mess," he observes.   
  
 "I'll try to do better, next time," the Chief says without humour.   
  
 "You've had quite a night," Lewindowsky says.  "You know, Dave, if you'd wanted an extra week off work, there are easier ways of going about it."   
  
 "Good night, Jack," the Chief says, and turns away.  We walk back towards where Tiny and Keyop are waiting.  Jason and Princess joining us.   
  
We get to the vehicle, de-transmute, and in the act of opening the driver's door, Jason pats the roof of his car and says, "How did she handle, Chief?"   
  
 "Not bad," the Chief says.  "For a mid-range model," he adds.   
  
 "I hope you enjoyed it," Jason tells him.  "It's the only chance you'll get."   
  
Princess pauses, her foot poised on the start pedal of her bike.  "Play nice, boys," she says, her voice betraying her weariness.   
  
 "Let's go home," I say.


End file.
